Presidential Pursuit: A Kamala Harris lesbian love story

Chapter 15

The alone time at the loft did nothing for my nerves. I spent two days in bed on my phone. Okay, I did do a little snooping around; I couldn't help myself, but I didn't find anything worth mentioning. If hadn't known this was Kamala's loft, I wouldn't be able to tell. It was a beautiful space; don't get me wrong, but there was no personalization. Aside from the motorbikes and the gadgets, there were no niche knickknacks, no picture frames, no mess.

On the third day, after I called her in the bathroom, I heard the door unlock from upstairs.

"Emily?" she called out.

My face forced an immediate smile. "Up here."

She made her way up the stairs and sat on the edge of the bed, close to where I was sitting against the headboard with my arms wrapped around my knees.

Her head tilted slightly to the side, and she offered me a small, compassionate smile.

"Hi."

"Hi," I replied with a slightly more defeated smile.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."

"It's okay. I'm glad you're here....I've been missing you."

She blinked for a second too long and released a tiny chuckled sigh through her nose. "Me too."

"So—" she scooted closer. "What happened?"

"A lot."

"Why are you always so vague, Emily? You're going to have to tell me what happened, dear. I don't know how to help you."

I wanted to make a smart, inappropriate little comment, but I stopped myself. Not the time. She just keeps setting herself up for my one-liners.

"I don't even know where to begin; it's a long story," I said, looking down at my knees.

She reached out and grabbed my hand, unlocking them from the hold I had on my legs.

"I have time. I'm here for you."

Her words were so sweet I could feel my eyes wanting to well up a little. I was feeling a mix of so many things that really anything she said would've made me emotional. The fact that she came at all was enough.

With a big exhale, I began my explanation from the very beginning.

"Okay, so growing up I only had my parents. I never met any of my extended family. I know my da—my father has some somewhere, but I have no desire to meet any of them. My mom had a sister; she passed a few years ago, but I was able to track her down after my mom..."

I felt the tears growing the more I thought about her.

I sighed and tried a new approach.

"My father killed my mom," I said bluntly.

Her eyes suddenly widened and then returned to their original state. She was looking at me deeply, listening intently.

"He used to hit her a lot. Most of what I can remember from my childhood is the violence. When I was about twelve, my mom was expecting. I was going to have a baby sister.... she made it all the way to six months. We took a trip to Florida around that time and rented a small cabin right by the water. I don't remember how long we were there for; all I can remember is what happened. He was really drunk, probably high too, and started hitting her. I was used to it; I locked myself in a room and cried, covering my ears, but this time was really bad. He just wouldn't stop. I could still hear him yelling at her and the impact of—"

My voice was starting to catch the closer I got to the memory. Kamala squeezed my hand.

"It's okay; take your time, I'm listening."