I found it in my overnight bag after our trip to the lake house. It must have gotten mixed in with my things. I’ve made no attempt to send it back to him and find myself packing it every time I go on the road. I’m keeping at least this for myself. I toss my bra across the room and pull Ezra’s shirt over my head. The well-worn cotton instantly transports me to a different time and place. Not a dingy hotel room, but to his bed, where he could make love to me all night and hold me until the sun rose.

I pull the collar to my nose and inhale.

A ring of fire squeezes my heart, burning, aching, forcing tears from the corners of my eyes.

I miss you.

On a day like today, when I lose, even worse, when the people I’m supposed to be fighting for lose, I want to go to him. Abandon this self-imposed separation and let him hold me. My phone, screen darkened, beside the rubbery food, silently dares me to call. I ignore it and reach instead for the little pouch. I can’t bear the thought of sinking the needle through my flesh right now. It shouldn’t be hard, I know. I’m a badass, I get it, but I’m a badass who hates needles and having to inject myself with one is my worst nightmare. It’ll be the last thing I do before I go to sleep.

I poke a fork at the food room service delivered and wrinkle my nose. It’s not great, but there’s an echo in my empty stomach and a throbbing in my head.

I’ve taken four mediocre bites when my phone lights up with a message.

Mateo:  Down another four points in the polls. When are you coming back?

Can this day get worse?

Me: Don’t worry about the polls. They’re preliminary. We haven’t even really started. The election’s a long way off. I’m back tomorrow. I’ll be at headquarters by noon.

I hope he doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t. We knew this would be a tough race and that our odds are long, but the reality of this uphill climb gets to us all sometimes. I took valuable time away from the campaign to come to Alabama and fight this shitty voter suppression legislation.

And lost.

Now we’re down in the polls and Mateo’s side-eyeing me, probably second guessing his decision to hire our team. Wishing he’d gone with his first instinct, bet on the good ol’ boy Anthony.

Okay. I’m spiraling.