Levi shrugs. “Hired a PI.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. I should be mad, but it’s actually a huge relief to know it was him and not some random in La Musa who was secretly watching my every move. It was just some creep Levi hired to watch my every move.
“I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if you had gone to regroup somewhere, ready to enact revenge for the texts leaking.”
“Oh, so you admit that was you,” I say.
Levi raises his hands. “I knew that you thought it was me. I had to know where you were, and when I found out you were just. . . doing your best Meryl Streep character, fleeing to Europe in the midst of a personal crisis, I knew leaking your location would wake you up and you couldn’t hide anymore.”
I want to punch him, but instead I laugh. I laugh really, really hard.
“Isabella?” Levi asks.
“Levi,” I say. “Please leave. And don’t ever come here again.”
Chapter Twenty One
I spend the week shadowing my parents, making up for taking out all my anger on them when I first came home. They forgive me, because of course they do.
I’m basically a retired person for seven days. A sunrise hike to the Hollywood Reservoir or Griffith Park, gardening after, coffee on the deck, pickling, jam-making, and an abundance of downtime. Even though I spent months after my last day in Congress doing nothing, I never really took the opportunity to unwind. Now, I’ve allowed myself the chance to rest, and as each day goes by, my muscles are more relaxed and the frayed ends of my nerves more even.
The farmers market down the street is the first time I venture out into my former constituency. I cling to my mother’s side like a shy toddler, never allowing her more than a few inches out of my sight. I see a few people look at me with a glint of recognition as we sift through chard in a vegetable booth, and I’mthankful for the people of LA’s preference to stare and judge rather than confront or say hello.
My mother has been a longtime customer of Judy, who I always called The Honey Lady. She smiles as we approach her. “Good to see you, Izzy. You look well.”
“You too. Do you have any Orange Blossom left?” I ask. Judy hands me a bottle and we pay her. It’s a refreshingly mundane exchange. A similar chain of events occurs when my mother runs into a friend from her pickleball group. And again when I see a neighbor from my old apartment off Crescent Heights.
I come to the crushingly embarassing realization that not everyone thinks about me as much as I do. And not everyone is as obsessed with my failure as I am. Maybe there will always be negative connotations associated with my name when it comes up in the online discourse or in the political zeitgeist, but outside in the actual world, I could be free. There will always be red-faced Matts to deal with, but the world is mostly filled with Honey Ladies.
My phone dings somewhere between the homemade hummus booth and the artisan bread.
Marisol: you’re gonna want to read this
The text has a link to an article. I click it and it takes me to the front page ofNew York Magazine.We All Owe Isabella Rhodes an Apology. I freeze. My mother is ahead surveying the sourdough. I duck to the other side of the tents and FaceTime Marisol.
“Is it bad?” I ask when she answers.
“You didn’t read it?” Marisol pushes her hair out of her face. Wherever she is, it’s windy.
“No, I didn’t read it. I don’t read anything about me anymore.” I hear a seagull and can’t tell if it’s coming from my end or hers. “Where are you?”
Marisol groans. “Chesapeake Bay. Disgustingly charming here. Jenny’s visiting and wanted us to do something, in her words, not boring.”
“You can call me back later,” I say.
Marisol shakes her head and shifts so I can see the water behind her. “There. Now we’re both enjoying the beach. You should read it.”
The thought is nauseating. I really don’t want to know what anyone else has to say about me. I don’t need to rehash the past year again. “I am trying this new thing where I don’t radically spiral every time someone brings up my past.”
“Even more reason to read it. Trust me.” A boat loudly honks its horn behind her. “Jesus!”
“Does it mention Italy? Does it mention—” I can barely bring myself to say his name. “The B-word.”
Marisol rolls her eyes. “No, the besotted mayor makes no appearance.”
“Ok. Good.” I look around to make sure no one else is within earshot. “How did you find this article?”
Someone hands Marisol an ice cream cone offscreen and she takes a lick. “It’s about Isabella Rhodes. It’s trending, babe.”
