“Hot,” Marisol admits. “But not in a good way,” she adds quickly. “Evil hot. Like a young Stalin, you know?”
I laugh, relieving some of the tension that’s built up in my shoulders. “I don’t think it’s ethical to compare your congressional colleague to Stalin.”
“My hate for Levi Cross supersedes decorum,” she says. “You know that, Izzy. I’m ride or die.”
“He hasn’t even sent so much as a text,” I say, my voice quiet. “I thought we were friends. At thevery least, I thought we were good friends. I thought that maybe even behind all of this, we would still be friends. It’s just hurtful on so many tiers, you know? I miss him as a friend.”
Marisol eyes me for a moment then moves the camera from one hand to the other. “Izzy, that’s fucking dumb.”
I put my face down into my pillow. “I know,” I say, lifting my head back up. “I thought I was too smart to be blinded by love. I hate that I’m one of those girls whose whole life goes up in flames because she fell for the wrong person. That wasn’t supposed to happen to me. This wasn’t supposed to be my life.”
Marisol has heard this all before, so she doesn’t say anything but nods sympathetically.
“So, Italy. What are we doing in Italy?” Marisol asks.
“I told you. Wine, pasta, pizza, perching myself pensively on sun-drenched windowsills.”
“No, I mean why are you in Italy? And for how long?” She’s back on her feet now, sensing the serious moment has passed, and she’s unable to sit still for longer than a moment.
“Forever, I guess. I don’t know, I just had to go, so I left,” I say.
Marisol looks at me, her forehead creasing. “Wait, so you were serious in your email? You’ve moved to Italy. Like, actually moved? Do you even have a job?”
“I have savings. And when that runs out, I’ll get a job at a flower shop or something.” There’s a clang of something on Marisol’s end and she disappears. “Marisol?”
She pops back onscreen. “Sorry, making empanadas to prove to Jenny’s parents that I am not a workaholic.” Her wife’s parents have changed parties since their daughter’s marriage, but Mari still feels the need to continuously earn their approval. “Ok, so you moved to Italy. What do you hope to accomplish there?” Her face refocuses on my screen, and I know I have her full attention again.
“Marisol. Literally nothing. I want to be nothing and no one and impact no lives and make absolutely no mark on the world.”
Marisol moves out of frame again. There’s another clang and I can’t tell if it came from Marisol’s shock at my statement or her lack of culinary prowess. “Look, Izzy, you know I don’t think anyone should feel like they need to serve the greater good ever if they don’t want to, but this is contrary to everything I know to be true about you.”
I sigh. “What do you mean?”
“Everything you’ve done your whole life has been because you believe you’re destined to leave your mark, to change the world.” I see a struggle with the oven, but Marisol continues, “You don’t seriously expect me to believe all of that has gone away because you lost one election? Because of one setback?”
“I’ve had plenty of setbacks. I got a B in AP Chem. Totally ruined my weighted GPA. I almost didn’t get into UCLA.”
Marisol exhales, exasperated.
I clarify, “I don’t know, Mari, this is what it’s all been for, this is what all my work has been leadingto.” The familiar tingle of disappointment from when the election results started to roll in that night in November creeps back to the edges of my limbs. “I failed.”
“You did,” Marisol affirms. “But that doesn’t mean you give up forever.”
Her words sound right, but I can’t wrap my head around any reasonable path forward that would make them true. “I don’t know. I’m just done, Mari. I’m done.” I hear a beeping noise in the background. “Is that your smoke detector?”
Marisol’s head whips around. “Shit. I have to go.”
“Order takeout next time!” I shout. The screen goes black as she hangs up.
It’s quiet again. It’ssoquiet. I’m used to falling asleep to city noise. At my parents’ canyon home there was always the whir of a helicopter, the boom of fireworks at the Hollywood Bowl, the howl of a nearby coyote, and in DC it was the distant whoop of sirens, drunk college students, my upstairs neighbor working on his beats. Here, it’s almost disturbingly quiet. The beginning of a horror movie quiet. Maybe that’s what I walked into here. An old house, an ancient town, a grumpy owner—I freak myself out enough to turn the lock on my bedroom door to make sure no one can get in.
There’s no TV in the room, so I open my laptop, thank god I didn’t throw it out the window, and navigate to my recently most-visited website, allowing the drone of rich middle-aged women arguing about bedrooms on a girls’ trip to drown out my thoughts.
Chapter Three
I wake the next morning to the sun dripping into my room through the slats of my blinds. I fling the window open and breathe in the crisp, cool morning air. I did not sleep well. It was 2 a.m. when I finally gave up on feeling tired and took half of a sleeping pill. My doctor prescribed them to me a year ago, when the constant stimulation from my congressional responsibilities, media appearances, online vitriol, and randomly becoming a celebrity left me feeling permanently wired. I was lucky if I got four hours at night, and if I had time for more, my brain couldn’t calm itself down enough to completely shut off. I wouldn’t have worried much, my cognitive function never faltered, but my body was starting to shut down. I threw up so often, my team was whispering to each other, wondering if I was pregnant. I always had a dull, persistent headache throbbing at the back of my skull. My muscles ached. I needed rest.
Now all I have ahead of me is rest. It will be good for me. I will feel better.
