by Kennedy Ryan
“I’m so glad you’re on the CWE,” Lennix says, blowing out a breath. “I wish you’d reconsider the position Maxim offered you in his cabinet, though, so you’d be around the White House even more.”
“As tempting as Chief of Staff is, it’s like a desk job when I need to be in the field. This is where I belong. I want to be in the trenches and continuing the work we set out to do.”
“I get it,” Lennix says, almost wistfully. “You know how hard it was for me to walk away from our mission.”
“You didn’t walk away. You are doing our mission on a scale we never could have imagined.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Speak to power? Honey, you sleep with power. When your baby’s daddy is the leader of the free world, I’d call that on mission.”
“I can’t complain.” Lennix laughs throatily, leaning back and resting her head on the couch. “Except it’s you, and you’re my best friend so you have to let me complain.”
“Yup. Part of the job description.” I wag a finger at her. “But so is telling you the truth. You are exactly where you belong and where you can do the most good right now. You have everything to be grateful for.” I tip my head toward the closed door. “Other than Robocop out there acting like a bloodhound, sniffing for bombs under my Queen Anne desk. What’s up with Mr. High Alert?”
“Like I said…” She smiles and shakes her head. “He’s new. I do get tired of the constant Secret Service presence, but I get it. And they are so over the top now that the word is out I’m pregnant.”
“We haven’t had a baby in the White House since…” I frown, thinking back. “Wow. Since the Kennedys.”
“Yeah, we’re hoping for a better ending,” she says dryly. “Thus all the hyper protection. There’s like four more where Hal came from out in the lobby.”
“Oh, I bet Carla is salivating. You know she loves a big man.”
Right on cue, a knock comes and my assistant pokes her head around the door. There’s a flush on her pale cheeks and her purple hair is slightly disheveled like she’s run her fingers through it.
“Should I feed those men out there?” she whispers. “I could order lunch for everyone.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lennix says. “I’m not staying long, but thank you, Carla.”
“Don’t rush off,” Carla says, her cheeks going pinker. “Really. It’s no trouble.”
“Don’t get distracted by all those muscles,” I warn playfully, “and miss my delivery.”
“It just came.” Carla’s grin is abashed. “Should I bring it in?”
“Sure. Thanks, lady.” I rub my hands together. “This is the dress I’m wearing to the awards ceremony in Atlanta. My family’s foundation is honoring community leaders.”
I always make sure our foundation has plenty of donations, but my limited hands-on involvement has been a sore point. My mother insisted I attend this event, and I’m actually looking forward to it.
Carla walks back through the door carrying a huge brown box. I gesture toward the work table on the other side of my office, thanking her as she leaves. Once the box is laid out, I tear through the packaging to find another box inside, this one white, emblazoned with the word gLo, and tied with a wide purple ribbon.
“I didn’t know it was one of Lotus Ross’ designs,” Lennix breathes, touching the silk bow. “You guys know each other?”
“We met at the Image Awards not too long ago. She’s a riot. You’d love her.”
“I adore her stuff. That last line was fire.”
“Are you kidding? She’ll send you anything you want. A chance to dress the First Lady? What designer wouldn’t jump at that opportunity?”
“I’ve been careful to make sure I’m wearing things by up-and-coming designers when possible, especially indigenous women. It’s such a great way to draw attention to those who might get overlooked.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call Lotus overlooked,” I say dryly, “since she just won the CFDA for womenswear designer of the year, but she’s still pretty new to the game, so that kind of exposure could only help.”
When I lift the lid of the white box and peel the fragile tissue paper away, Lennix and I both gasp.
“Holy crap,” Lennix says, running her fingers lightly over the golden silk. “This will look fantastic on you.”
“It was literally made for me.” I lift the dress from the box, revealing the gilded fall of shimmering fabric. “Lo sketched it over drinks when I was in LA a couple months ago.”
“You have to try it on.” Lennix presses her palms together in a begging pose. “I wanna see.”
“Okay! You lock the door. I’ll get the windows.”
While Lennix walks briskly to lock the door, I draw the drapes across the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the chaos of D.C. traffic and commerce. I rush back to the work table, anticipation humming through my every molecule. My girly reflex is fully activated. I’m already thinking about the Manolos I found to go with the dress, mentally accessorizing and wondering if I should wear my hair blown out or upswept and in its natural curls. Without self-consciousness, I strip off my slacks and blouse, standing in only panties and bra. Lennix and I are in that “over ourselves” stage of friendship you reach through time and trial. She, along with our friend Vivienne, were my extended family so far from home. I carefully slide the silk up to my thighs, frowning when it catches there.
“What the…” I mutter when the material only inches up incrementally, not quite clearing my hips. It pulls so tight that if I force it, the dress will probably rip.
“Oh.” Lennix bites her bottom lip and tilts her head to the side. “Well, it…did she maybe send the wrong size?”
“I told you. She made it for me. One of these exists in the whole world, and Lo confirmed my measurements no more than ten days ago. I don’t get it.”
“I’m sorry, babe. Well, if we—” Her phone buzzes on the work table. She grabs it, still eyeing me with consternation. She glances down and grimaces. “Ugh. Dammit. I forgot we added a meeting to my schedule this morning. It’s on possible legislation for improved maternity leave. Something with teeth. My secretary just reminded me.”
“Go.” I waddle over to her, careful not to make any sudden dress-ripping moves, and give her a quick squeeze. “Be the badass bitch First Lady I know you can be.”
“And here I was looking for a motto when you had that up your sleeve this whole time,” she says, the sarcasm thick, but still not eclipsing the concern when she pulls back from our hug. “Kimba, the dress—”
“It’s fine.” I force a smile. “I have a dozen dresses that should work.”
If I can fit any of them.
“You get outta here. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Okay.” She rushes to the office door and unlocks and opens it. Hal stands there, blocking our view of the lobby and Carla, who is probably on her fainting couch with all that broody testosterone in forced proximity.
“Love you,” Lennix offers as a final parting and closes the door behind her.
“Love you, too,” I mumble absently, staring down the length of my body with dismay. I’ve noticed a few lumps and rolls that stubbornly resisted four days a week of Orange Theory, but didn’t realize it had gotten this out of control. I’ve been busy strategizing how I’ll turn a swing state in an upcoming gubernatorial election. Lumps and rolls around my middle got back-burnered.
My cell rings and I grimace when Lotus pops up on FaceTime. I want to ignore it and call back audio only so she won’t see me.
I answer, being careful to keep the phone aimed above my shoulders.
“Hey, Lo.” I inject my voice with the enthusiasm the woman who has become a close friend would usually merit.
“Heyyyyyy.” Her pretty face, surrounded by a huge, curly afro, lights up. “My assistant just told me we got a delivery notification on the dress. How is it?”
“It’s…” I glance at the material pooled below my waist. “A little tight.”
“T
ight?” Lotus’ sleek black brows snap into a frown. “It shouldn’t be. We finalized measurements not long ago.”
“It’s not you,” I rush to reassure her. “I’ve been gaining weight lately faster than I ever have in my life.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, but um…” I make sure the door is still closed. “I’ve also missed four periods.”
The reaction is instant and comes with a boom.
“What the hell, Kimba?” Lotus’ husky voice pops me on the head through the screen. “Did you take a pregnancy test?”
“Several.” I groan and tilt my head back to contemplate the ceiling. “All negative.”
“But could you be?”
I think back to my last hook-up. A unisex bathroom at the networking mixer off Fourteenth Street. It’s a blur of hand-blown chandeliers, bottomless mojitos, blond hair, hazel eyes, a medium-sized dick and a DIY orgasm, but I know we used protection. And I have IUD insurance.
“It shouldn’t be possible,” I say on a long exhale. “I took all the precautions, but nothing’s fail-proof, right?”
“Well, something must be up.”
“I have an appointment with my doctor. They drew blood a few days ago and are running several tests. I go in to discuss the results tomorrow.”
“Okay, we’ll figure it out, but first things first.” Lotus narrows dark eyes at me through the screen. “How much do we need to alter the dress so you can have it in time for the event?”
I reluctantly scroll the phone down my half-clothed figure to show her the poorly-fitting garment.
“Oh.” Lotus pastes on a smile. “I can work with that.”
“Lo, don’t play me.”
“No, I’m serious. Get Carla to take new measurements. Ship it to me next day. I’ll make the alterations myself with a little wiggle room and send it back immediately. Sound good?”
I swallow a lump in my throat, put there partially by her kindness and partially by the problem I’ve tried to shove to the back of my mind for weeks. It has pushed its way front and center today.
I paste on a smile of my own. “Thanks, Lo. Sounds great.”
Chapter Nine
Ezra
“Should we try to make love?”
Aiko presses her naked body to my back. She wasn’t nude when she came to bed last night, so I guess she stripped to enact this little scene. Her question feels clinical, premediated compared to how we first came together nearly a decade ago.
I was getting my Ed.D. at UCLA, and a classmate dragged me to a party in Sawtell, where I had off-campus housing. Outside, Aiko was running some kind of makeshift photo booth from a gazebo. We were instantly attracted, and I made a rare departure from my usually cautious coupling protocol. Within hours, we were in her tiny bedroom screwing loudly and raucously, trying our best between giggles and orgasms not to wake her ornery roommate.
Should we try to make love?
That urgent, passionate night feels like a millennium ago beside her tentative question this morning. For a moment, I consider faking a snore, but it’s that kind of avoidance behavior that has dragged this out for months.
Years?
Though Aiko and I never married, we’ve been together ten years, all Noah’s life and nearly a quarter of mine.
“Ezra?” Aiko pokes her breasts into my bare back. “Did you hear me? Are you awake?”
“I’m up,” I say, my voice sleep-scratched and reluctant.
“And?” She slides her hand around to my cock. “You want to? Should we try?”
Try? Does she even hear herself?
“It shouldn’t be this hard, Ko.” I shift so her hand slides to my hip.
She deliberately moves her hand back to my dick and squeezes. “Feels hard enough to me.”
She squeezes my dick, I get hard. That’s biology, but it’s not a substitute for the healthy relationship we both deserve. We’re in our thirties, not college students looking for a quick hook-up. I’ve given in to physical urges for years, hoping it would restore what we once had.
Intimacy. Passion.
But it hasn’t and I’m no longer sure how to fix what is broken. Not between our bodies, but between our hearts.
She rolls away, the sheet snapping when she jerks it back with an angry flourish. Her feet hit the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she says, drawing a deep breath. “It’s just so frustrating. I don’t know why this is happening to us.”
I roll to sit up on my side of the bed and run weary hands through my hair. “We need to talk, Ko. Maybe it’s time to…”
I glance over my shoulder and see her seated on the edge of the bed, faced away from me, her naked back bowed, her dark head bent. “God, Ezra. We have a son. We’ve been together so long. You’re this quick to give up on us?”
“Quick?” My laugh emerges as scornful despite my best intentions. “We’ve been to couples’ counseling. We’ve done date nights. Tried sex in public to fix this. Every damn thing Dr. Cairns recommended, we tried, and things aren’t getting better.” My words fall on us, a shower of pebbles that hurt when they land on us both. “Things have gotten worse, Ko.”
“We haven’t tried everything,” Aiko says, her voice hesitant, hushed.
I stand, stretch and walk over to the window, pulling back the drapes to study Noah’s garden out back. The sprinkler isn’t on. I could have sworn I set the timer last night.
Aiko comes to stand in front of me, sandwiching her small body between my bare torso and the window. She’s donned one of her colorful kimonos. With her long straight hair, dark eyes and golden skin, she’s gorgeous. She’s also a brilliant photographer and a remarkable mother to my son. It’s easy to see why we began, but with our chemistry shriveled and dried and the arguments over nothing increasing—it’s hard to see us making it much further.
“Ezra, we haven’t tried everything Dr. Cairns suggested,” she says again.
“What haven’t we tried?” I ask, glancing over her head to inspect the tomatoes below, easy enough since barefoot she only reaches the middle of my chest.
“An open relationship.”
My eyes jerk from a row of peas to her determined expression with her wide, tight mouth, set jaw and pleading eyes. “We didn’t try it because it’s a bad idea. You actually think me fucking someone else is the answer?”
“Maybe me fucking someone else is.”
She probably says that to get a rise out of me, but we’re past that. At least, I am. “Doesn’t the fact that you want to sleep with another guy tell you something?”
“Maybe we just need a jolt, and experimenting a little could do that. Dr. Cairns’ suggestion about an open relationship was to save what we have, not end it. You once asked me to marry you, Ezra.”
“And you refused. You did us both a favor.”
“You only asked because I was pregnant.”
We’d only been dating five months when she realized she was pregnant. My mother had asked in horror if Aiko was planning to raise her grandson as Hindu? Hearing that most Vietnamese are Buddhist, not Hindu, didn’t make Mama feel any better. I assured her my girlfriend didn’t practice anything except photography. Aiko’s profession is her religion, and she’s practically evangelical in her zeal for it. She is about as much a practicing Buddhist as I am a Jew, despite my mother’s efforts.
“You know I don’t believe in marriage,” Aiko says, “but we’re as close as I’ll ever come. You don’t just discard that after so many years.”
There are lots of ways I could pick this argument apart. One of the main reasons I haven’t is still asleep down the hall.
Noah.
It’s so simple with the three of us living under the same roof. I cannot see my son less. I want to read with him every night before he goes to bed. Breaking up with Aiko means breaking this arrangement, and things may have cooled between us sexually and emotionally, but we’re still a family. We’ve raised an extraordinary little human so far, knock on wood, and we make
a good team. I had no reason to disrupt that, but I’m afraid the disintegrating romance is now eroding everything else.
She loops her arms around my neck and lifts up to whisper in my ear. ”Even if I fuck someone else, I’ll always want to fuck you. I still want you, Ezra, and you still want me. Remember Taco Tuesday?”
Our whole neighborhood gathers for tacos every Tuesday, and one night a few weeks ago the patio bartender had a heavy hand. Wednesday morning, I had a hangover, hazy memories and regret to show for it. I’m not a monk. Every morning in the shower, my sexual frustration goes down the drain. I can’t explain it other than we’ve been living like roommates for so long, practically platonically, that sex with Aiko just doesn’t feel right anymore. Something can feel good, but not feel right. That night, we may have managed to feel good for a few moments, but I can’t remember the last time we felt right together.
“It was the margaritas.” I reach up to gently disentangle her hand from around my neck. Her arms flop to her side and she looks up at me, her expression earnest.
“It was beautiful. We slept together and it was beautiful again,” Aiko says, though I don’t know if she even believes that. I was too wasted to remember if it was beautiful or not. “I just want to get back to us.”
“And this is your solution?” I shake my head. “Not interested. I don’t want an open relationship. Or one that feels like…”
A prison.
I don’t say it because I don’t want to hurt her, but our life together, that bed when we’re beside each other, feels like a cell. I still care about her deeply, admire her. But I want to be her friend again, not her inmate.
“Remember in counseling when we talked about what we saw growing up?” I ask, taking a different tack. “What we saw in our parents and how it affects us?”
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes resigned because she knows my history—probably knows what I’m going to say.