“Wait, what?” My heart drops. I see Jenny join Marisol onscreen and wave.
“Hi, Izzy. So nice to see you, but I need my wifeto stay off her phone for more than two minutes at a time. Say bye, Mari.” Jenny waves.
I could spiral about the fact that I’m trending, but what if I didn’t? What if I let my friend and her wife have a nice day at the beach? “Bye you two. Have fun!”
“I won’t, but thank you!” Marisol yells before the screen goes black.
I peek back out at the market and see my mom is still distracted by the bread choices. I sit on the curb and open the article. I start reading.
In late October, the latest in a long line of congressional sex scandals made the news when text messages between Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes and then-opponent Levi Cross leaked to the public. The predictable barrage of vitriol toward Rhodes exploded on the internet, eventually tanking both her reputation and her re-election chances. The difference between this and the dick pic chronicles of the sex scandals of yore was that Rhodes didn’t actually have an affair, she just wanted one. And since when is being a human being who craves sexual contact with another human being, when you are not married and that person is not your employee, a crime? Or even a fireable offense?
“Izzy?” My mom pokes her head through the back of a tent. “What are you doing back here? Let’s go.” I exit out of the article. I don’t need to know the rest. Despite what Marisol thinks, I don’t need to harp on what someone else wrote about my personal life, but the sentiment came through.
I follow her to our car and scroll social media as soon as I’m buckled.
This is so true, there was a witch hunt for Izzy Rhodes and for what?one person says.
A prominent columnist fromThe New York Timeswrites,Congresswoman Rhodes deserved better.
Since when is being horny a crime frfr,another internet stranger writes.
Not everything is 100% positive, but it proves what I could never see: The hatred directed at me after my texts leaked won’t last forever.
I take a deep breath and scroll to the bottom of my hundreds of unread text messages and start reading. They’re overwhelmingly positive. Former colleagues in the House, journalists, college friends, acquaintances—they’re all wishing me well, hoping I’m loving Italy and are happy to hear I’m choosing to move on with my life.
One of my former staff members sent over the name of a restaurant I have to try if I’m ever in Arezzo. Priya said she’ll be in Rome later this summer if we want to meet up. Congressman Jennings merely textedItaly? Noice. Everyone that reached out was surprised but thrilled for me. I’d convinced myself that all of the people in my life looked at me with disappointment or, worse, pity since the Levi incident, but their messages tell a different story. They’re supportive. The idea that I didn’t deserve any respect after I lost was one no one else shared. At least no one else that counts.
I scroll through my emails and it’s more of the same. Well-wishes, congratulations, travel suggestions.My heart skips a beat when I see a familiar name in the barrage of unread messages: Eveline Reed. I click on it.
Izzy—welcome to the club of unpopular successful women. Keep up the good work. Take it from someone who’s been in your shoes before: Every loss is an opportunity to come back even stronger. Don’t let this asshole be the one to end your story. We need you. Please reach out if you need support.
Eveline
I re-read it three more times and double-check to make sure the message is coming from her official gubernatorial campaign email. Eveline Reed believes in me. Eveline Reed knows who I am, and not just because of Levi. Eveline Reed thinks the world needs me. It shouldn’t matter what one person thinks of me, but it matters that Eveline Reed thinks about me at all. By quitting, I’m letting what Levi did to me define me. And I can’t let that happen.
When we get home, I open my laptop and do something I haven’t done since shortly after taking office and search my own name on the internet. I used to have a Google alert set up for “Isabella Rhodes,” but once the coverage on me got to be too overwhelming, my team would weed out the garbage and only show me pull quotes from legitimate sources. While I spent months dwelling on what I didn’t do right in my time in Congress and my re-election, I never stopped to take a moment to be proud of myself for what I did accomplish.
Since I was a kid, it was my dream to be a United States congressperson. And I was.
My search brings up the highlights first: theWomen eattweet, clap backs to my colleagues who tried to degrade me, the historic first time California elected a woman my age. Then I scroll further: the climate bill I co-sponsored which ultimately didn’t have the votes to clear the House, the Sunday morning news show blitz I did with Marisol to garner support for gun control, my refusal to vote “yes” on an infrastructure bill my own party put forth because I didn’t feel like it went far enough to protect workers.
Even if I didn’t achieve everything I set out to do when I was elected, I sure as hell tried. That has to count for something. That has to matter. At least to me. I thought running away would free me, but maybe the best way forward is to do something bigger, something better.
But first, I have to clean up the mess I left in La Musa.
Benito wanted me to stay out of his family’s drama, but screw that. I tell my parents I’m going back and book a flight for the next morning. It all feels parallel to when I made the split-second decision to go to La Musa all those months ago, only this time my purpose seems clearer. And I’m packing much lighter.
I work on my pitch the entire flight over, finessing every detail until it is absolutely perfect. I only have one shot to get this right—and I’m going to get it right.
My heartbeat kicks up as I board the train to LaMusa. It’s hot and humid. The weather’s warmed significantly in the two weeks I’ve been gone, and I’m drenched in sweat as the train pulls into the La Musa station. I doubt Anita’s rented out my room to someone else already, but I still keep my expectations low as I go to the house, opting to knock on the front door instead of using my key. I could use a shower and a meal, but I need to do this before I lose the gumption.
“Izzy!” Vincenzo nearly knocks me over with a bear hug as soon as he opens the door to greet me. “You’re back!”
“I’m back,” I say. “Is Raffaello home?”
“Indeed,” Vincenzo says, taking my rolling suitcase from me. “Signor is in the kitchen with Signora Sutton.”
Sutton. Of course she’s still here. A butterfly flutters in my stomach to realize that probably means Benito’s still here too.
