Page 34 of See You Next Tuesday

When Zeke’s housing situation fell through only a couple of months into dating Anya, she’d been worried that him moving into her (very small) apartment would put undue strain on their relationship. It hadn’t been easy, but it had also been, to Anya’s surprise and delight, really nice. Zeke was on the road most of the time for work, and Anya was always happy to see him when he got home. No matter how tired and stressed Anya was after a long day on the Sessego campaign, it all seemed to melt away when she and Zeke got high, watched half an episode of whatever comedy was rerunning on TBS, and fooled around until they fell asleep.

“I’m sorry,” Anya said to him. “I hate to start the day already bitching about Gabe.”

“No, it’s good,” Zeke joked. “I’m driving to Ely later, so you’ve gotta get your bitching in now.”

“That’s today?” Anya looked up at him. “I thought that was next week.”

“Annie, today is next week. At least I think it is.” He reached over to grab a half-smoked joint from an ashtray on the kitchen table, then lit it and took a hit. He offered it to Anya, but she shook her head.

“How long are you gone?” she asked.

“Not sure.” His voice was thin from the hit, then he exhaled. “They want to open a field office up there, but there’s some problem with the building. If the lease falls through we gotta find somewhere else, so. Maybe five days, maybe a week?”

“That long?” Anya gave him a pouty little look. “How ever shall I survive these harrowing climes all by my lonesome?”

This was always their bit when he left: He was her rugged frontiersman, she was the homesteader bravely fighting off enemies as she awaited his return.

“I guess you’ll need some memories to keep you warm,” he said gruffly, pulling her close.

“Yes,” Anya agreed solemnly. “But will the memories help me defend against bears and dysentery?”

“They will if I make them good enough.” Zeke kissed Anya’s neck. “How much time do we have?”

“Ugh, not much, maybe twenty minutes? My first meeting’s at nine, and I can’t be late. Gabe has been up my ass over this immigration vote—”

“Hey.” Zeke put his hands on either side of Anya’s face. “Can we be done talking about him?”

“Sorry.” Anya felt a twist of shame. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re going to make it up to me in twenty minutes?” Zeke teased. Anya kissed him deeply and started unbuttoning her green silk shirt.

“Maybe thirty.” She moved his hands to her bra, and he groaned with appreciation. “Forty at the absolute most.”

“Hit me, Shawn—what do we have today?” Gabe threw a Nerf football to his deputy, Shawn, a fellow Stanford alum who’d quickly become something of a mini-Gabe.

“You’ve got senior staff in ten minutes, then coffee with that woman from the Sun at eleven.” Shawn scrolled through his calendar.

“That reporter who likes shooting ranges?” Gabe frowned.

“No, the other one,” Shawn corrected. “Tina Reynolds?”

“Then it’s not coffee, it’s cocktails. That woman can throw ’em back at any hour of the day,” Gabe sighed. “Lacey!”

“Yeah?” the department assistant, Lacey, came rushing over.

“Call Tina Reynolds, see if she can meet me for happy hour instead of coffee. Or dinner, or anything after three p.m.”

“Copy.” Lacey nodded. “If she can’t reschedule, should I cancel the meeting?”

“No, I need her to cover Jo walking the culinary workers’ picket tomorrow, so it’s gotta be today. If she can only do eleven, make sure there’s water and aspirin and some kind of very large sandwich waiting when I get back to the office, okay?”

“Speaking of that picket line—” Shawn broke in.

“I need to write Jo’s remarks.” Gabe rubbed his temples.

“She wants a draft by two so she can read it on her way to Crystal Springs.”

“Lacey, did research come back with those numbers on Local 226’s economic impact in Nevada?” Gabe asked.