After, he grabs a pencil, sketching out the letters, and the way he’s freehanding this font, the way his hand moves in precise, deliberate movements—I can’t look away. He’s an artist and it’s mesmerizing. I’m tempted to trace the veins on the back of his hand, the muscles in his arm that bunch and flex.
“What did Elizabeth say?” I ask, needing something else to focuson.
He glances at me. “Nothing, really. She’s been getting a lot of reports of homes that’ll need complete rebuilding, and she’s trying to triage and figure out a schedule for after everything clears up. She wanted to talk through it, but I can call her back in a bit.”
“This is for the volunteering you do? With her organization?”
He nods but doesn’t add anything else.
“When did you start working with them?”
He continues sketching. “Oh, it’s been a few years now. Elizabeth was out walking her dog, and she knew I worked in construction, and she asked if I’d come out for a few hours. Now, I help coordinate and pitch in where needed. It’s just…” His fingers tighten around the pencil, his movements growing a bit stiff. “Losing a home…it can be a traumatic experience. And it’s something that happens too often here, with the frequent flooding and storms like this. And fixing places up, that’s something I know how to do, so if itcan help…” He trails off, straightening the piece of wood, then sketching again.
I swallow. I don’t know if I’d ever realized that this was something Nikhil would like to do. That he’d enjoy using his skills and talents to help people in this way. I don’t know if I’d ever realized this was something Nikhil and I shared.
I think about the people on this street. In this city. How much rebuilding will need to happen, and how much change is needed here and throughout the state. I think about all the things Elizabeth said, and how there’s something I know how to do, and how I want to be here so I can do it. So I can help.
“That’s great, Nikhil,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re doing that.”
He works quietly for a little while, and I let myself picture it for a moment. Living in Texas, working with folks like Elizabeth, advocating for change. Living in this house, with Nikhil, waking up to his bright, joyful smile, and falling asleep right beside his tender heart and hardworking hands.
“Done,” he says, showing me the lettering on the sign. “You want to try carving it?”
I don’t know why, but I tell him yes. I take the drill from his hands, and he stands behind me, walking me through a minitutorial. He shows me how it all works, and he does the first letter with me, his body firm behind me, his hands steady over mine as we trace the letter together.
He’s patient with me, moving more slowly through the process than he had been when he’d been doing it on his own. And I savor the feel of him, this quiet intimacy of the two of us working together.
“You know,” he says, as we finish and move on to the next letter, “I think you’d be great in Garcia’s seat.”
Hope flutters for a moment. Nothing more than a whisper, but I feel it, somewhere deep inside me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “After you mentioned her, I did some reading about her, and the causes she’s championed, they’re exactly the issues you care about. The ones you’ve been working on all these years.”
I startle, but fortunately my hands don’t shake, our movements stay slow and smooth. “How do you know what I’ve been working on?”
A huff of breath travels over my ear. “C’mon. You didn’t really buy that I was watching all that C-Span just for fun, right?” he asks, his voice low and amused. “I’ve followed your career. The bills you’ve worked on, the laws you’ve lobbied for, the articles you’ve written.”
“You have?”
He hums in acknowledgment, and the sound vibrates through me. “I liked your op-ed about immigration policy last year,” he says casually, as if every word he’s saying isn’t making me feel like I’m melting inside. “I ended up reading more and watching some documentaries about it. It’s partly why I think Garcia’s seat makes so much sense for you. Not just because it’s in Texas, but because it’s what she’s always led the way on. Something that really matters to her constituents. And to you.”
“Me too,” I say. “I thought the same thing too.”
“And I know Alan said Elizabeth might run for it, and she might, but I still think it’d be worth doing. If it’s what you really wanted.” His voice softens. “People here would be lucky to have you.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, the word small and inadequate, unable to convey how his belief in me feels. It’s as if I have wings, as if the impossible might actually be within reach. “I’m still thinking about it, but thank you for saying that. It…it means a lot.”
We finish another letter, and he switches off the drill, leaving it to me. “You want to try the next one on your own?”
My heart flips in my chest. He’s trusting me with this, sharing this with me, showing he’s not afraid of me handling this by myself. I nod, and he steps to the side as I move on to the next letter.
I work for a while, and I can feel his gaze on my hands, then my face. He watches me, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
He followed me to D.C. He never called me or tried to find me, but he’s been following my career all these years, and…The question scares me, but I want to ask it. I want to know the truth.
“Nikhil, earlier, before I fell sick, when you told me you came to D.C., you said you would have moved with me if you’d known what I…if you’d known how I felt and is that still, is that—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nikhil’s shoulders stiffen.
