At the mental image of Marjane, Alex’s mind inevitably drifted to Elena, a woman who had similarly spent her whole life sacrificing for her family. It hadn’t even been a full day since their argument, but her absence was already tangible. By now, her mother would have sent her at least a few text messages, or photos from the daycare. She would have asked for updates, FaceTimes so she could see the tourist attractions. And she would have joined her lunch with Paul on video, asking what they were eating and telling them they looked tan.

“Thank you,” she finally said, unsure of a better response to encapsulate her huge emotions. “Danial,” she continued, meeting his eyes head-on. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“Congressman Stephens emailed me about the video. He wants us to make it a series.”

His expression fell, and he quickly reassembled it into something diplomatic. “I see. That makes sense.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Thank you for telling me.”

“Yes, well, I know it’s not great news, but I regret not telling you about the video, even if—” She stumbled over her words. “I tried to edit out the worst of it, but it was too late.”

He raised a single eyebrow before seeming to catch himself and lowered it, nodding his head.

“I believe you.”

She couldn’t tell if he actually did, but it didn’t really matter at this point.

“But I also have to be honest that we’re probably going to move forward with the series. I can’t tell them not to just because you work there.”

“I would never ask you to.”

That she was sure was true.

“I know you think I targeted you,” she said. As she heard herself, she pivoted in real time to the less accusatory language she’d practiced in therapy: “Well, I know it would seem like I was targeting you. And maybe I was being petty about some things. But I actually believe in the stuff we’re fighting for.”

“I know you do,” he acknowledged. “And I would never want you to change that.”

“Thank you,” she replied, swallowing the ball of emotion rising to the top of her throat. Among so many other things, she was truly sick of crying.

“We’re all just trying to do our jobs,” he offered.

Her eyes met his, and she raised an eyebrow of her own. She might have punished him with that video—might have lost the essential moral high ground she’d had over him for a decade—but it gnawed at her that he was still trying to conflate her job with his. Against her better judgment, she pushed back.

“Danial,” she started, keeping her eyes steadily trained on his. “Our jobs are very different. You know that, right?”

To that, he said nothing, so she continued.