Epilogue Two

CORA

Six years later

“…We have an interview with the Times, but I’m working on the scheduling. Regina wants to do lunch with you in three days, and she’s going to ask for another interview—”

“Beverly,” I say, practically shoving the interjection into the atmosphere. “Bev. I love you, seriously, but I need you to take these leftover vegan canapés and go home.” I thrust the container at her. “Tonight was great. I’d be lost without you.”

The pinch in Beverly’s brow fades. “Thank you,” she murmurs before she takes the canapés and rests her tablet on top of the lid. “You were fabulous tonight. I’ll call you in the morning.”

She heads out, waving as she goes, and with my Chief of Staff’s departure, another celebratory dinner with producers from 24N is in the books.

Having a Chief of Staff is an unprecedented, but necessary change in my life—and has been for the last six years. Everett was right: After our day in Richmond, astounding things did happen to me. That summer, the offers and opportunities were as abundant as egos in the Senate Chamber. I turned them all down with the exception of a proposal from Beverly Mazetti.

I was the first person she called once she quit Team Logan. After she helped us set up the governor, Beverly got a taste for rebellion. We met for coffee, and when we left Tryst at closing time, we had a business plan—and like so many of my plans that summer, it worked flawlessly.

It started the way camming did: sitting in front of a laptop in my bedroom. With Beverly’s help, I simultaneously released the first eight episodes of Nobody Ever Asks, a podcast about the eight women Felix wrote about in his book. The response was immediate. While Felix’s book kept the women anonymous and treated them as research subjects, my podcast shared their stories in their own words. Things grew from there.

Eight episodes became six critically acclaimed seasons. My point of pride: Every guest on the show has been a sex worker, including the two women at my kitchen island, picking at a leftover crudité tray when I enter the kitchen and collapse on a stool.

Essie throws her arm over my shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted. But thank you for coming. It’s important for the producers to talk to more sex wo—”

“We’re here for the free food,” she interjects shamelessly. “Sorry. Someone had to say it.”

I laugh and chuck a triangle of pita bread at her, which Valeria snatches out of the air and eats.

“In less than a month, you’ll have a network-backed podcast,” Valeria mentions once she’s done chewing. “You’ll be on every music and audio streaming service and your marketing budget is basically limitless. Do you think Felix is sobbing into his pillow right now?”

“I’d bet a tit,” I reply—and I wouldn’t bet one of my precious tits if I weren’t confident. Felix actually messaged me a month ago when 24N announced they would be backing and producing my podcast for the foreseeable future in a huge deal that would drastically expand my growing platform. He was curious if I would be willing to have him as a guest one day, seeing as he’d been struggling to recover from being exposed as a fraud and had lost most of his deals. My answer: I only interview sex workers, so you better start camming. He never responded.

Valeria releases a languid sigh before she slides off her stool, clutching her round stomach. She’s pregnant with her third child, and I swear, scientists should study her and Lander. All he has to do is look at her funny, and she basically starts ovulating on command. “Should we call it a night and head home? I have babies to get in cribs.”

“You need a night off,” Essie mentions, linking her arm in Valeria’s to help her waddle to the living room. “Dalton and I are always down to give you a break.”

“Last time we took a night off, we made this one,” Valeria replies, patting her stomach.

“Well, you can’t get more pregnant,” Essie reminds her.

We linger in the cherrywood archway that leads into the living room. At one end of the couch, Marta, Lander and Valeria’s older daughter, is fast asleep with her head in her father’s lap. On the other end, Dalton is holding the second Dawson-Fuentes baby, Gabriela, as usual. Of the six of us, she sleeps best on her Uncle Dalton, probably because his chest has the biggest surface area, but also because the guy spoils her like she’s his own daughter.

My husband is in the middle, flanked by his two best friends, not holding a baby but holding his digital camera while he clicks through the pictures he took tonight.

I nudge Essie before bobbing my chin at Dalton, who is absently drumming his fingertips on Gabriela’s back while she sleeps. “Speaking of getting pregnant, that guy is so ready to knock you up with one of his giant babies.”

Essie grins at her husband (and sort-of stepbrother). “He was definitely born to be a daddy.”

The word “daddy” makes Dalton perk up as if he’s primed to react to it. “Hey,” he murmurs, eyes landing on Essie. He stares at her like he still can’t believe his luck.

“Hey,” Essie says back, nursing an affectionate smile. “You guys ready to go home?”

“What time is it?” Lander whispers before he digs into his pocket for his phone.

“Eleven,” Dalton whispers back before he rubs the faint hairs on Gabriela’s head and chuckles. “You guys remember when we used to go to the Wawa on campus at, like, three in the morning, shitfaced , and still had the energy to go out again the next day?”

“This is better,” Everett answers before he stands and motions for Lander to pass Marta over so Lander can pack diaper bags. Marta immediately snuggles against her Uncle Everett, recognizing him even in her sleep. He faces me. “Ready, to go home?”

“Actually, I have things to do here. Can someone check on the cats for us? We might be late.”

“Of course,” Valeria agrees, which makes Lander sigh, which in turn makes Valeria frown at him. “What’s wrong?”

Arms laden with diaper bags and an infant car seat, Lander raises a shoulder. “Easy promise for you to make. Your cute pregnant ass is banned from touching the litter, so I end up scooping them and smelling like cats. Then Pierre avoids me like I’ve betrayed him.”

“Pierre avoids you because he loves me the most,” Everett declares, which makes Lander’s jaw drop.

“Do you want to fight me, Logan?” he questions, prompting everyone else in the room to groan.

“I am literally holding your daughter, you prick,” Everett replies as I head to the staircase, and I can’t help but laugh.

The Logan House is the last standing remnant of Everett’s association with his family. We nearly sold it a few years ago when we bought the side-by-side row homes in Georgetown where we live with Essie and Dalton on one side and Lander and Valeria on the other, but we ultimately had a change of heart. The early days of our relationship happened in this place—as did the early days of my podcast. Parting with it gave the burden of his family legacy too much weight, we thought.

Instead of selling, we converted it into headquarters for my “Whore Podcast” (as Warren so affectionately dubbed it the last time he drunkenly called Everett on Christmas, trying to reconnect. Everett then had tote bags made from recycled plastic with “Don’t bother me while I’m listening to my whore podcast” emblazoned on them, and we made a killing in sales).

Now, as I climb the Logan House’s stairs, the familiar path gives me goosebumps as usual. A trail of framed pictures lines the wall. They were all taken by my husband over the last six years: A black and white portrait of every guest on my podcast. The portraits are all stunning, like every picture Everett takes. And while they share a common denominator of dignity, they’re also unique—like their subjects’ seldom-told stories.

The story of my husband and me began on a night when Everett refused to take a picture of a sex worker. Now, he has taken hundreds.

I reach the landing and continue on to the narrow attic staircase. The topmost floor, where Everett Logan for Congress used to operate, is now a shared office for the two of us. Some days, we eat our lunches in here over our laptops. Other days, we fuck right on the desk. Most days, we work, bouncing ideas off each other: For me, it’s podcast ideas and the book I’m writing, and for Everett, it’s photography projects and the environmental causes to which he has steadily distributed what remains of his trust.

Tonight, he follows me. I knew he would. An old floorboard creaks, and I find Everett standing in the doorway. He tips his chin; I do the same.

We seldom interact at work events—Everett’s choice. He’s content to live on the perimeter, seeing the world through a camera lens. He watches me. And when the night ends, he always finds me and shows me how proud he is.

My hands clasp his cheeks, and my lips touch his for the first time tonight with a kiss that’s hot and needy even after six years together. The kisses have never faded. The fucking has never cooled. What burns between us is still unwieldy, unpredictable, and unconditional—purely and truly unconditional.

“Hey,” he whispers when our lips separate.

“Hey.”

His eyes—green and gorgeous—linger on my face before he presses his forehead against mine and murmurs, “You’re a star, princess.”

He’s too close to see me smile, but there’s something special about being called a star by a guy who can name every constellation in the galaxy.

He wraps his arms around my body, and I surrender to his embrace. Things are about to change, we both know. More people will be listening to me and watching me—watching us . Over the last six years, the changes in our lives have been astounding, but not without their challenges: For every kind word, there’s a criticism; for every supporter, there’s a detractor.

But neither of us has ever been thin-skinned. Words don’t hurt us. Extraordinarily little does. We have each other to thank for it.

I thread my fingers through his hair—keeping it messy like I always will, and stare into my husband’s eyes when I ask, “Do you want to run away together?”

***

I may hate camping, but god, I love this guy.

The Perseids streak across the sky at thirty-seven miles per hour in flashes of hazy turquoise and flinty blue that meld with the glow of the stars scattered over us. They’re ephemeral, appearing for fractions of a second that inevitably make my breath hitch. My pulse spikes and the goosebumps haven’t subsided since our first sighting. Their effect lingers far longer than they do.

My husband lets out a measured exhale as the dusky night sky lights up with the movement of a meteor, and his hand tightens around my shoulder. His pinky presses against the scar on my arm, and he squeezes, urging me to look. The sky is vast, but I still spot the flash of light that appears and disappears into the panorama of the cosmos.

Night in Shenandoah is cold as usual, as we’ve come to know it during our many trips here. A few feet away, our tent stands erect next to Everett’s camera, which is set up on its tripod and oriented upwards. There’s a strong possibility we’ll never set foot in the tent though, even with the biting chill of night.

Everett and I are naked, wrapped in a blanket and laying on a bed of our unfolded sleeping bags. One of Everett’s arms rests behind his head and the other is curled around me, toying with my nipple piercing now. He exhales—and I do too—and our exhales fog in the Virginia night.

My husband and I have been many things in our lives so far. A son. A daughter. A policy analyst. A PhD candidate. Begrudging acquaintances. Assassination targets.

A candidate. A camgirl.

Tonight, we’re simply visitors in an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man.

Another meteor passes and the wilderness surrounding us creaks with swaying trees and vibrating night crickets. The sounds are familiar—welcoming. My husband has always belonged here, and I belong wherever he is.

I look at Everett and he looks back at me. We’ve said thousands of things to each other over the seven years we’ve known each other, but there’s nothing to say tonight.

The sky is black and flickers azure with each meteor that floats over us. The sight is breathtaking, but even with the marvel of meteors and the vastness of its stars, it’s the same sky that watched me take a bullet for Everett and drenched us in rain the night we made love. We may be visitors here, but when we return to the District, we’ll return under the same sky. Tonight, it blankets us with the promise of freedom, the promise of each other, and the promise of forever.

We have this. We have everything.

And together, we are everything.

The end