Reading The Shade Room’s post, it seems like I’m not the only one who thinks it might be.

Be still our woke hearts! Kimba Allen, political badass, and Israel Hammond, professor, activist, author and thirst bucket-worthy, out together for a night on the town? We full-time stan for this hook-up.

I’ve heard of Israel Hammond, but have always seen him as a…thinker. Not this burly man. And I’ve never thought of him with Kimba.

“Is this real?” I ask Mona, shooting her a sharp look. “Kimba said…”

She said she didn’t want anyone else, but that was nearly a year ago. She’s probably tired of waiting—not that I asked her to. I assumed this was as difficult, as lonely for her, as it is for me.

She doesn’t look lonely in this photo.

“We haven’t talked much lately.” Mona takes her phone from me carefully, like it’s a loaded weapon. “But I do know her life is crazy right now. Not only did her firm take on Congressman Ruiz and Keith, but there’s a few other key races she said needed support. She’s stretched really thin.”

“I know.”

“So are you. Once election season is over—”

“I know.” My jaw aches I’m holding it so tight. “You don’t have to reassure me, Mo. I get it.”

It’s quiet, her looking at me and me looking at Mai.

“Don’t keep Jamal waiting,” I tell her, my voice even. “I don’t want you to be late.”

“Ezra, it’s nothing.”

“Right. You better go.”

She dips to kiss Mai’s cheek. “I’ll check on you guys tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say, giving her a smile that I know she knows isn’t real.

Mona’s heavy sigh speaks for her before she heads out toward the back exit.

As soon as the kitchen door closes behind her, I pick up my phone, my finger hovering over Kimba’s contact. I look down at Mai as if she might stop me before it’s too late. “I’m gonna regret this, huh, little girl?”

I dial anyway.

It rings four times and I’m formulating the message I’ll leave on Kimba’s voicemail when she picks up.

“Ezra?”

Her live voice throws me for a second.

“Uh, yeah. Tru, hey.”

I sound about as awkward as I felt at our middle-school dance. I just call her out of the blue like this? Like we talk every day? We don’t. We haven’t.

“Everything okay? Noah? The baby?” She pauses to clear her throat. “Aiko?”

“They’re sick. I mean, Mai’s been sick, but her fever broke. Aiko just got whatever Mai had, I guess. Noah’s Teflon.”

“Of course he is.” Her laugh is low and husky, familiar and missed. “And you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Who’s Israel Hammond?”

That was not subtle.

“Oh. Well, Iz and I—”