No more breaking the rules and thinking about DK. No distractions. No obsessing about the enemy. I need my inner Doberman back. My fire. My reason for doing this.
More jobs, funding programs that support women and marginalized communities, protection of the waterfront, and no politician empty talk. I’m going to run a campaign close to the people. For the people. One that actually speaks the language of the community.
Reenergized, the rest of the day flies by with a sense of accomplishment, completing the tasks in my planner. While I pack up, Anika calls with an update.
“Volunteer applications are rolling in. Fundraising activities are lined up. I’m liking what I see from individual contributions—small amounts, but steady volume. Every dollar adds up.” I hear the energy in her voice, the optimism. “I also confirmed a luncheon with Women Rising. They’re influential, and their backing could really bolster our campaign.”
“That’s great news. I was hoping to earn their confidence.”
“You will. And one more thing.” Her tone shifts slightly. “I spoke with Diablo’s strategist. Dakarai Ramos.”
I go still. Then remember to breathe. “About what?”
“Diablo wants to meet to discuss the debate schedule and rules of engagement. I set up something for Thursday at the end of the day, with the four of us. Neutral location.”
“Why can’t you and the strategist just meet?”
“Apparently, Diablo wants you there.” She pauses. “Is that a problem?”
“No. No, of course not.” The lilt in my voice is a little too high. “I’m just juggling both jobs right now.”
“Want me to push it to later?”
“Probably better to just get it over with.”
“You okay, Rayne?”
“Yes. Definitely.” I grab my bag. “Gotta run. I’m having dinner with my father. Thanks for all your hard work.”
“Happy to do it. Say hi to Mo for me.”
“I will. Talk tomorrow.”
I head home to change, pushing aside the dread of sitting across a boardroom table from DK.
Dapper as ever, Montell Webber, is seated on the other side of the booth in a blue and white seersucker suit. He’s always been stylish. That’s where I get my love for fashion.
I went with all-white: wide-leg pants with a halter turtleneck, and peep-toe heels. I gave up on battling the humidity and let my hair curl naturally, using enough water-based gel to drown a fish.
We’re nibbling on breadsticks and sharing a bottle of Pinot Grigio that pairs perfectly with The Ship Mate’s signature seafood platter. It’s our usual, but neither of us is in a hurry to order. Several people stop by to offer congratulations, and each time, Dad’s grin stretches wider.
“You’re really enjoying this,” I say, sipping the chilled wine.
“What’s wrong with being proud of my baby?”
“Not a thing.” I smile. “I like making you proud.”
“You always have.”
“Aww… thanks, Daddy.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “How’s the campaign office coming along?”
“Making progress.” I give him the highlights, then ask about Farah—the woman he’s been seeing—who lives thirty minutes from town.
“She’s well,” he says without offering more.
Mo Webber never remarried. Never had more than a handful of quiet, short-term relationships. He loved my mother withhis whole heart—the kind of love I hope to have someday. Losing her to a rare blood disease nearly broke him. He coped by pouring everything into raising me and into writing BIPOC stories for children. The ones on grief and vitiligo hit the bestseller list. Still, books and me aren’t enough.
