I drift through the room, thanking volunteers who spent their Saturdays knocking on doors and retirees who stuffedenvelopes until their fingers cramped. I take selfies with college students who should probably be somewhere more exciting on a Friday night, but my Gen Z base doesn’t play about showing out.
Anika hasn’t sat down once. Her gaze paces between the TVs and her tablet, refreshing polling data every thirty seconds like she can will the results into existence.
Lot is losing her mind in New York, but thankfully, she’s funneling her anxiety through her mom instead of me.
DK and I agreed we’d see each other after the election was over—however it turns out.
A few days ago, a reporter had asked if I was rooting for my man.
“Absolutely not,” I’d said. “I intend to win.”
The clip went viral, and someone turned it into a meme featuring a photo of me and DK holding hands during one of our boardwalk dates.
Dating
Supporting each other
Letting him win
#Relationshipgoals
DK and I had a laugh over it. He joked that my competitiveness was my love language. It just felt good to have people finally start talking about us like a couple instead of a headline.
Dad appears at my side and presses a paper cup into my hand. It looks like water, but smells like turpentine.
“Is this contraband?” I whisper.
“Just a little something to take the edge off.”
I take a small sip and immediately regret it, coughing into my elbow. “That’s awful.”
“It’s Miss Sandie’s moonshine.”
“Miss Sandie?” I glance over at the sweet grandmother figure across the room, with her halo of tight-rolled silver curls. She looks completely at odds with the liquid fire currently burning a hole through my stomach. I can’t help but laugh.
Dad grins. Then his expression softens. “How’s my baby girl holding up?”
“Hanging in there. Barely. But I’d rather be anxious than unconscious.” I hand him back the cup and glance toward the television in front of us. On the screen, the anchor is interviewing a political analyst. He repeats what I’ve heard all week, just wrapped in different packaging.
Tight race. A divided electorate. Expansion versus sustainability. An incumbent with a proven record versus a challenger promising a new direction.
The controversy comes up too. Always in this setting. Questions about my judgment. The secret relationship. The photos.
At 8:00, the election logo spins across the screen before the anchor reappears. “Good evening, Bayside. We have our first early results.”
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Thirty-five percent reporting. Webber: 50.4%. Diablo: 49.6%.”
Cheers bounce off the walls. Someone whistles, fists pump in the air, even though we all know it means nothing this early. Still, it’s a promising start.
Dad squeezes my arm and I lick my dry lips. He gets me actual water this time.
The next update takes almost an hour. I wring my hands. Conversations fade. Phones lower. People drift closer to the televisions. Even Anika stops pacing.
“Sixty percent reporting. Diablo: 50.3 %. Webber: 49.7%.”
The room groans. It’s not defeat. It’s the kind of margin that keeps you on the edge of your seat and your stomach in knots.
