Presidential Pursuit: A Kamala Harris lesbian love story

Chapter 22

I couldn't even sleep that night. I replayed the conversation over and over in my head—not just that, but everything. The entirety of the last month. My brain was all over the place. What got me the most was the realization that I was in too deep. I wanted Kamala all to myself, forever, and I had no say in that. What she told me on the beach helped, but it didn't reassure me; it wasn't a promise, and it didn't guarantee anything for us. Well done is always better than well said. I mean, what—was she just planning on keeping me on the side forever and staying married? I was happy she stood up to Doug about me; believe me, I was, but it wasn't enough. I needed him gone... completely. If I could strangle him myself, I would, but jail was not in my plans... not unless Kamala was there, slamming me face-first into the metal bars. Okay wow, yeah, I'm down bad. Jesus Christ. See, that's why I needed a level-headed perspective.

Sitting on the bed with my legs crossed, I dialed. The second the call went through, I brought the speaker close to my lips and groaned as loud as I could.

"I am going to kill myself." 

"Whoaa, start over."

"Sophia, what is wrong with her?"

"Who?"

"I mean, she ignores me for weeks and then follows me all the way here and then eats me out on the plane as an apology, and—"

"Excuse me?" she said, appalled.

"You heard me— then, she basically tells me she's a retired whore and then eye fucks that blonde bitch...who by the way! Shocker! she had a thing with, and did god knows what with—"

"Wait, Vanessa?!"

"Yes, keep up. And THEN she—"

"Oh my fucking god, tea!"

"No, not tea. Bleach, and I am going to drink it. Can I finish?" I asked impatiently.

"Oh please, continue. I've been waiting for this one. Took you long enough."

"Okay," I sighed. "She fucking lets that gremlin be all up on her right in front of me! And then I'm being irrational? I'm the child!? She didn't even tell me straight up—what the fuck else am I supposed to think?"

Sophia hummed from the other end, processing the word vomit.

"...Okay, so she's a little friendly and noncommittal? So are you."

Umm...did I just catch a stray?

I sighed. "First of all, rude. Second, that's the problem," I sighed again, throwing myself back onto the bed. "What if... what if I am? Well, not—I—I mean, like with her. What if I want to be with her for real, Soph? I don't know how much more of the back and forth I can take."

Sophia giggled from the other line.

"It's not funny," I reprimanded in a serious voice.

"No, I know, but to me it is. I've never heard you talk about someone like this; you sound like a lovesick teen. It's kinda cute."

"It's not cute. Nothing about this is cute. She's the president, and she's married, and she's bipolar as fuck."

She sighed deeply through the speaker, and I could tell she was preparing herself to get into analytical Sophia mode. Exactly what I needed. I couldn't un-scatter this brain alone.

"Okay, well... what are you to her? Her girlfriend, mistress, fuck buddy, none, all of the above?"

All of those made my stomach turn.

"I—I don't know..."

She hummed. "What about you? What is she to you?"

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, feeling the stress of the questions overtake me. "Sophia, I—I don't know. She's Kamala. Like, we're together... ish."