Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
In the morning, I wake up to sunlight pouring through my open window. My mouth is cottony, my dress is wrinkled, and I’m still wearing the shoes I thought all night were a little too tight. I kick them off, slide from the bed and find my flip flops. I don’t even bother to change, but dash down the stairs and out the front door.
I come to a halt right on my porch. Mrs. Stern stands in their driveway loading suitcases into the trunk of their car. Ezra is tossing a duffle bag into the back seat when he sees me. He stops, glances at his mother and crosses the yard to meet me. My heart see-saws, happy to see him and scared to see him go.
“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says firmly. “We need to go.”
He throws her an angry look, ignores her and comes up onto the porch. “Hey,” he says, his voice subdued.
“Hey.” I lick my lips and ask the obvious question. “W-w-where are you g-g-going?”
The harshness leaves his face and he reaches for my hand. “To New York.”
“New York?” I ask, my chest tightening. “But camp’s not for another t-t-two weeks.”
Each summer, Ezra goes to Jewish summer camp near his bubbe. Even though she passed away, he was still planning to go this year.
“We’re going early.” A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Mama says we need to get away. My father’s not coming with us.”
“Why can’t you stay here?” I ask, my voice plaintive, almost begging.
Ezra shrugs, a frown collapsing between his brows again. “They won’t let me.”
“But y-y-you’ll be back, right?” I bite my tongue until tears prick my eyes. I hate how my words won’t come out when I need them most—when it’s most important.
“I’ll be back.” He glances around. His mother walks into their house, but leaves the car running. No one is out, not even Mrs. Washington. The neighborhood allows us a rare slice of privacy.
Ezra touches his forehead to mine and cups my neck.
The tears overflow, sliding down my cheeks and salting the corners of my mouth. I’m losing something. I’m losing him. I know it. Even though he says he’ll be back. I just know…
“Don’t go.” It’s a wet whisper that I can’t hold back. “Ezra, I have a bad feeling. Like I won’t ever see you again.”
Even saying it, the words corkscrew right through my heart.
“It’s only for the summer,” he says, pulling back and lifting my chin, giving me a smile I know is forced. “I’ll be back before school starts. You think I’d miss our freshman year in high school?”
I hesitate, but shake my head. “Ezra, kiss me.”
He searches my face for a second, looks around, up the street that’s never this quiet, this empty on a Saturday morning, and leans forward to press our lips together, slipping his tongue into my mouth. We’re still tentative, barely sure we’re doing it right, our lips and tongues clinging and wet and sweet. I thought it might have been the music or the decorations, the dance or the moment that made last night’s kiss magical, but it’s none of those things.
It’s us.
That magic is still there when the only music is the distant buzz of someone cutting their lawn one street over. Still there when the mood lighting is nothing more than sunshine.
“Ezra,” Mrs. Stern says.
We break our kiss and look up. She’s at the car, elbows leaned on the roof on the driver’s side. Her gaze flicks between us, her eyes sad and red-rimmed. “We have to go now, son.”
The lump in my throat swells, hot and huge, and I refuse to release his hand for a second. I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. His skinny arms tighten around me, and I feel his tears on my neck, too.
Don’t go.
I want to make him stay, to beg him not to leave, to not ignore this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, but Mrs. Stern honks the horn and climbs behind the steering wheel.
I love you, Ez.
It sounds ridiculous even in my own head, in my thoughts. We’re thirteen. What do we know about love? The kiss, these feelings are so new, I can’t make myself form the words, so I say the one word that will always mean the same thing to us no matter what.
“Pact,” I whisper.
Ezra nods, sniffs and slowly lets me go, running his eyes over my face like maybe he thinks it’s the last time, too. “Pact.”
PART TWO
“…It feels less like I am getting to know you
and more as though I am remembering who you are.”
― Lang Leav, Soul Mates
Chapter Eight
Kimba
Present Day
“Would you like to make history, Congressman?”
I’ve lost track of how many leaders I’ve asked that question. They always say yes, the thought of breaking ground intoxicating them into a knee-jerk response. It’s usually the ones who answer fastest who don’t even make a dent. The ones who take their time replying, who ponder it for a second, often have the best chance of changing the world. Phone pressed to my ear in the beats of silence while I wait for Mateo Ruiz, the Georgia congressman, to reply, I can practically hear him counting the cost, weighing his next words.