by Kennedy Ryan
“Our pact is that we’ll always be friends,” he says, his voice quiet, sure. “That nothing will come between us, not even each other.”
Not even each other.
I’m not completely sure what that means, but I hook my finger with his. “Pact.”
“We should kiss on it,” he says, tugging me closer by my pinky.
I’m breathless, waiting for our lips to touch and for that feeling I had in the bathroom to take over my whole body again.
“Damn you, Ruth!” Mr. Stern’s angry voice travels from inside my house when our lips are separated by just a breath.
“Let me explain,” Ezra’s mother says, her words reaching us in the garage.
“You can’t explain this!” he shouts back. “We’re leaving, and that’s final.”
Leaving?
Our wide eyes connect, fear and panic rising inside me at the threat of Ezra’s leaving. We hear the front door open so violently it slams against the house. Hurried footfalls pound down the steps. Leaving my house, Mr. Stern almost walks right past the open garage, but double-takes when he sees us inside. Fury twists his features.
“Come on, Ezra,” he snaps. “We’re going home.”
“But, Dad, I—”
“Now, Ezra!” his father roars so loudly I’m sure Mrs. Washington got an earful while fake-watering her plants.
“Okay. Okay.” Ezra drops my hand and leans forward to kiss me quickly. It’s just a peck, but maybe he feels the little thrill like I do, because he lingers. He presses closer and slips his tongue inside. It feels good and right. I lift my hand to touch the thick curls at his nape.
“Ezra!” Mr. Stern yells from their porch across the street. “I’m not telling you again. Come. Now.”
“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says, watching us through the open garage door. “Listen to your father. Come home.”
“Okay.” Ezra walks toward his mother, but turns at the last minute and glances at me over his shoulder, his eyes serious.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly with his mother standing there waiting.
I nod, a strange feeling unfolding inside of me as my parents’ raised voices reach me from inside the house.
“Okay. Tomorrow.”
Mrs. Stern’s face is tear-streaked and her hair is mussed, unusual because her appearance is always neat. Her mouth trembling, she looks at me for a long moment before speaking.
“Goodbye, Kimba,” she says and touches Ezra’s shoulder, urging him to walk away.
I close the garage and step cautiously through the kitchen door, being as quiet as I can in case I catch fragments of the argument.
“That’s not fair, Joe,” my mother says, tears in her voice. “How could you even…”
It goes quiet in the living room, a listening quiet.
“Tru?” she asks abruptly. “Is that you?”
I sigh and drag my feet from the kitchen to the base of the stairs in the foyer. My parents stand on opposite sides of the room, a gulf between them. My father’s whiskey decanter sits on the coffee table, a rare sight since they don’t drink much. Broken glass litters the bricks in front of the fireplace.
“What’s happening?” I ask. “The Sterns—”
“Are not our friends,” my father says harshly. “Stay away from them.”
“No.” It comes out before I even realize it, but I refuse to apologize. “Whatever you and the Sterns are fighting about, I don’t care, but Ezra—”
“What did I say, Kimba?” my father growls, his face so distorted by rage that I don’t even recognize him.
“But Daddy—”
“Go to your room,” Mama says, her voice soft and firm and unyielding.
“Mama, I—”
“Go to your room!” she screams, tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids. “For God’s sake, can you for once just do what you’re told and stay out of grown folks’ business? Go to your damn room, Kimba!”
Mama never curses at me. I fight back my own tears and run up the steps. Their argument resumes downstairs, but muted, deliberately low-voiced and hiding. I run to their room and grab the phone on their bedside table. I could dial Ezra’s number in my sleep. My fingers fly over the keypad without any thought, but the line is busy. I try again and again, but I can’t get through. After a few minutes, I go to my room and flop onto my bed, not even bothering to wrap my hair or take off my dress.
It feels like I’ve lived a year in the span of a night. I don’t know what’s going on between our parents, but I do know what’s going on between Ezra and me. We are beginning. I kissed my best friend and things will never be the same. Whatever happens between our folks, we have each other. And we’ll always be friends.
In the morning, I wake up to sunlight pouring through my open window. My mouth is cottony, my dress is wrinkled, and I’m still wearing the shoes I thought all night were a little too tight. I kick them off, slide from the bed and find my flip flops. I don’t even bother to change, but dash down the stairs and out the front door.
I come to a halt right on my porch. Mrs. Stern stands in their driveway loading suitcases into the trunk of their car. Ezra is tossing a duffle bag into the back seat when he sees me. He stops, glances at his mother and crosses the yard to meet me. My heart see-saws, happy to see him and scared to see him go.
“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says firmly. “We need to go.”
He throws her an angry look, ignores her and comes up onto the porch. “Hey,” he says, his voice subdued.
“Hey.” I lick my lips and ask the obvious question. “W-w-where are you g-g-going?”
The harshness leaves his face and he reaches for my hand. “To New York.”
“New York?” I ask, my chest tightening. “But camp’s not for another t-t-two weeks.”
Each summer, Ezra goes to Jewish summer camp near his bubbe. Even though she passed away, he was still planning to go this year.
“We’re going early.” A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Mama says we need to get away. My father’s not coming with us.”
“Why can’t you stay here?” I ask, my voice plaintive, almost begging.
Ezra shrugs, a frown collapsing between his brows again. “They won’t let me.”
“But y-y-you’ll be back, right?” I bite my tongue until tears prick my eyes. I hate how my words won’t come out when I need them most—when it’s most important.
“I’ll be back.” He glances around. His mother walks into their house, but leaves the car running. No one is out, not even Mrs. Washington. The neighborhood allows us a rare slice of privacy.
Ezra touches his forehead to mine and cups my neck.
The tears overflow, sliding down my cheeks and salting the corners of my mouth. I’m losing something. I’m losing him. I know it. Even though he says he’ll be back. I just know…
“Don’t go.” It’s a wet whisper that I can’t hold back. “Ezra, I have a bad feeling. Like I won’t ever see you again.”
Even saying it, the words corkscrew right through my heart.
“It’s only for the summer,” he says, pulling back and lifting my chin, giving me a smile I know is forced. “I’ll be back before school starts. You think I’d miss our freshman year in high school?”
I hesitate, but shake my head. “Ezra, kiss me.”
He searches my face for a second, looks around, up the street that’s never this quiet, this empty on a Saturday morning, and leans forward to press our lips together, slipping his tongue into my mouth. We’re still tentative, barely sure we’re doing it right, our lips and tongues clinging and wet and sweet. I thought it might have been the music or the decorations, the dance or the moment that made last night’s kiss magical, but it’s none of those things.
It’s us.
That magic is still there when the only music is the distant buzz of someone cutting their lawn one street over. Still there when the mood lighting is nothing more than sunshine.
“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says.
W
e break our kiss and look up. She’s at the car, elbows leaned on the roof on the driver’s side. Her gaze flicks between us, her eyes sad and red-rimmed. “We have to go now, son.”
The lump in my throat swells, hot and huge, and I refuse to release his hand for a second. I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. His skinny arms tighten around me, and I feel his tears on my neck, too.
Don’t go.
I want to make him stay, to beg him not to leave, to not ignore this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, but Mrs. Stern honks the horn and climbs behind the steering wheel.
I love you, Ez.
It sounds ridiculous even in my own head, in my thoughts. We’re thirteen. What do we know about love? The kiss, these feelings are so new, I can’t make myself form the words, so I say the one word that will always mean the same thing to us no matter what.
“Pact,” I whisper.
Ezra nods, sniffs and slowly lets me go, running his eyes over my face like maybe he thinks it’s the last time, too. “Pact.”
PART TWO
“…It feels less like I am getting to know you
and more as though I am remembering who you are.”
― Lang Leav, Soul Mates
Chapter Eight
Kimba
Present Day
“Would you like to make history, Congressman?”
I’ve lost track of how many leaders I’ve asked that question. They always say yes, the thought of breaking ground intoxicating them into a knee-jerk response. It’s usually the ones who answer fastest who don’t even make a dent. The ones who take their time replying, who ponder it for a second, often have the best chance of changing the world. Phone pressed to my ear in the beats of silence while I wait for Mateo Ruiz, the Georgia congressman, to reply, I can practically hear him counting the cost, weighing his next words.
“Yes,” he finally says. “And I look forward to your support.”
“You’ll have it.” I press through my own hesitation to make the risky play. “I’d love to lead the charge for the first Hispanic governor of Georgia. My firm has a proven track record.”
Understatement, since we just elected the sitting president.
“That you do,” Mateo agrees. “I’m still figuring out the composition of our team, but I’ll keep you in mind.”
Keep me in mind? My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since word got out that I turned down a cabinet position in the new administration. Every candidate on my side of the aisle worth their salt wants me running their campaign, yet the one candidate I actually want to represent will keep me in mind?
“Who else are you considering?” I ask, uninterested in beating around the bush.
“You’re on a very short list, Kimba,” he says dryly. “You know that.”
“Me and…let me guess. Anthony Rodderick?”
His chuckle confirms I guessed right. “Anthony has a lot to offer, and he’s a native son.”
“I grew up in Atlanta. My family’s one of the most influential in the city. You know that. I have a personal stake in seeing the first minority governor of my home state.”
“I know you do, and of course I recognize the weight of the Allen name in Atlanta. You know Atlanta, but there’s Atlanta and then the rest of the state, which we both know is a different demographic.”
“Oh, I see. You think you need a good ol’ boy to win the good ol’ boys. Someone like me couldn’t possibly understand anything beyond Atlanta city limits, even though I just elected a president for all fifty states.”
“I need stability, and your company is in transition. I’m ecstatic to have our first Indigenous First Lady, but Lennix was half of Hunter, Allen & Associates. If we’re honest, she was the face of it.”
No one to blame but myself. I should have nothing to prove at this stage of my career, but I’m still being questioned. Still being tried. To some degree, I shot myself in the foot all those years ago making sure my business partner Lennix was the one on camera. My abhorrence for public speaking, always pushing her out there, led many to believe Lennix was running the show alone. Now that she’s gone, some wonder if there’s still a show.
Well there is, and I’m running it.
“With all due respect, Congressman, you won’t need a face to win your election. You’ll need a sharp political mind, experience and determination, all of which I have. While I understand your concerns about stability during this transition, I still have the most hungry, talented team in the business. None of our campaigns will suffer.”
“Like I said, I’ll keep you in mind.”
I want to tell him he can keep this middle finger in mind, but then I remember how much I actually like him—that I agree with him on policy, on principle. That I honestly believe the things he wants to do might just transform the lives of the working poor and middle class in my home state. That means something to me. It’s the bigger picture, and it’s worth me setting my pride and ego aside long enough to wait for the answer I want.
Daddy used to say don’t talk about it. Be about it. The fastest way to shut up someone who thinks you can’t do something is to do something. Two years since he passed away, and his words continue to guide me every day.
“Yes, please keep me in mind, Congressman,” I say, executing an internal whoosah. “I admire Anthony deeply and respect all he’s done, but I think I’m the best person to lead you to victory in Georgia. I hope you’ll come to agree.”
He chuckles. “No one can ever say you lack confidence, Kimba.”
“I’m a woman, a black woman at that, working in a male world. If I waited on other people to believe in me, I wouldn’t get very far, and neither would my clients. And I take my clients far, Congressman.” I let that sink in because we both know I just took one to Pennsylvania Avenue. “Get in touch when you’re ready to talk.”
He’s one of the good ones. That rare politician who isn’t a narcissist and who is actually in it for the people more than for himself. Because it’s always a little for ourselves. While I wait for him to arrive at the right conclusion—that we should work together—I’ll do a little work on my own. I’ll search for things like tucked-away mistresses, hidden drug habits, brushed-under-the-rug convictions. Every closet has skeletons. I like to drag my candidates’ dirty secrets out into the open before we even begin. If I can dig and find them, so can anyone else. I’m an on the offensive kinda girl, so I dig first and I dig deep.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Either way.”
Motion at the office door distracts me. My assistant, Carla, taps her watch and lifts her brows to disappear beneath purple-tinted bangs. My next appointment must be here. Considering who my next appointment is, I’m surprised she didn’t just burst through the door. After all, this used to be her company, too.
“Congressman, I have to go.” We disconnect and Carla smiles her satisfaction as she turns to leave.
My office door opens and a huge man walks in, speaking into a mic at his sleeve, his bulk shrinking the room.
“Excuse me?” I toss my cell phone onto the desk and lean my hip against the edge. “Did you just barge into my office?”
“I have to clear the space before the First Lady enters,” he intones absently, walking around the room and checking I suppose for explosives.
“Uh-huh. I figured, but they do teach you to knock at the Secret Service, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, a little color creeping into his cheeks. “Sorry about that.”
“We all clear?” I ask with a teasing smile.
“All clear,” he says into the mic, allowing a small smile of his own.
I quickly forget his rudeness when Lennix rushes in, arms extended.
“Kimba,” she says, squeezing me like I’m a raft in rushing rapids. “Thank God.”
I squeeze her back and then pry her arms from my neck after a few seconds. “Whoa, there, little koala.”
“I’m sorry.” She pulls away, grinning wryly. “I’m just glad to
see a normal person.”
She glances over her shoulder to where Secret Service man stands at the door like a centurion.
“Hal, thank you for checking the room,” Lennix says. “You can wait outside.”
Uncertainty skitters across his face for a moment, tightening the corners of his eyes and lips. He opens his mouth, probably poised to object, but Lennix holds up one hand and points to the door with the other.
“Thank you, Hal.”
He turns to leave and closes the door behind himself.
“He’s new,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And zealous.”
“Not one of the normal people, I gather.” I cross the office to sit down on the couch and pat the cushion beside me. “Come tell Mama all the things.”
When she walks over and sits, her dress pulls taut over her middle, revealing a little baby bump.
“Oh my God!” I touch the small mound, breaking pregnant lady etiquette because that’s my godchild in there. “Look at our little peanut.”
Her grin widens and her gray eyes light up. “I know. I’ve never been so happy about gaining weight.”
“I bet Maxim is crazy protective and over the moon.”
“All of the above and more. He’s ecstatic. We both are.” She rubs a hand over the little bump lovingly, her expression softening. “But it’s happening when there’s so much pressure, so much scrutiny, and people underfoot all the time. It feels like I’m rarely alone, much less alone with Maxim.”
She glances around the office, furnished with items we chose together when we first opened our political consulting firm. “I kinda miss normal life.”
“Fuck normal. We are not normal chicks.” I relax into the corner of the sofa and cross my legs. “We are in the League of Extraordinary Bitches. You hear me? You are the first Native American First Lady this country’s ever had. Damn right it’s pressure. Your agenda is the most ambitious we’ve ever seen from a First Lady, so yeah, it’s hard, but you’ve got this.”
When she first announced that her agenda was simply women, everyone asked her to elaborate. Just…women? Equal pay for women. Reforming maternity rights for women. Secondary education for women. She has assembled the Cabinet on Women’s Empowerment, a body of experts who craft programs and solicit support from the corporate sector to partner with government initiatives.