“Does she eat?” Gogo asks, narrowing her eyes like this is the deciding factor.
“Yebo, Gogo. She likes food.”
“Good. I don’t trust a woman without an appetite. Tell her to come hungry.”
“I will.” I laugh, and for the first time since leaving D.C., the air actually feels lighter, as if Gogo’s cleansing ritual really worked.
When the call ends, I lean back and finish my beer. That conversation went deeper than I planned, but it needed to. The static in my head finally quiets, the guilt I’ve held onto for so long loosens.
I’d set the expectation. I wanted to be treated like a man again—not a patient or cautionary tale.
I have a lot to tell Don on Friday. But the person I want to tell most is Luna.
I reach for my phone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rayne
“Respectfully, Symone Francis is the best candidate,” I say, standing my ground.
For four years as Director, I sat at this table with these six council members—presenting ideas, defending budgets, and showing growth projections, all to earn their approval. Not just of the work, but of me. I wanted to be valued. Seen for my competence.
Today, I’m not here as their subordinate. I’m here as their equal.
Same room. Different weight. Same old boys’ club.
“The Director of Tourism role needs someone who understands what already works and has the vision to build on it,” I continue. “Symone hits the ground running.”
“Familiarity can also create blind spots,” Cecil Newman replies, sitting across from me, silver hair slicked back, gray suit pressed within an inch of its life, fingers steepled like he’s offering wisdom instead of condescension. “Sometimes fresh leadership is what a department needs.”
Fresh leadership. Please. The candidate he’s pushing is Gordon Hays—a business analyst for a tourism company in Bower County with all the personality of stale cornbread. During his interview earlier, he spoke about Bayside like he’d read it on Wikipedia. Meanwhile, Symone knows every vendor, every seasonal problem, every small business owner by name.
She is the obvious choice. My successor. Which is precisely why Cecil is resisting.
“Fresh leadership is great when the current structure is broken,” I say evenly. “It isn’t. Symone is already doing the job. And doing it well. Her performance metrics speak for themselves.”
“That may be,” he says, choosing his words. “However, the Director role requires more than supervised competence. It requires authority and presence. Someone people naturally follow.”
The dressed-up version of: I want a man in the job.
Cecil belongs to that particular breed who calls his assistants sweetheart and is personally offended by women in boardrooms unless they’re serving coffee.
I set my pen down slowly, formulating my response. Even a year ago, I would have softened my tone. Chosen subtle persuasion over confrontation.
Smaller voice. Quieter opinions. Still me, but… less.
Hollis liked that version too. The one who accommodated. The one who made herself easier to digest. Easier to love. Now, I don’t shrink—not an inch—for anyone.
I lean back in my chair and meet Cecil’s gaze. “When men say ‘presence,’ they usually mean someone who looks like them.”
Councilman Miller coughs into his fist. Councilman Taylor, to my left, suddenly finds his notes fascinating.
Cecil’s jaw tightens. “That’s an unfair characterization.”
“No,” I reply with full-throated calm. “Unfair is suggesting a man who crunches tourism numbers but has no operational experience should have the job over someone who is already doing it. Unfair is discounting Symone’s contributions while hyping a candidate who had to use Google Maps to find Bayside. Unfair is expecting more from a woman while applauding less from a man.”
Now nobody is looking at their notes. Good.
