Free The Chosen One by T. B. Markinson

dimmed.
    “Unfortunately, the budget is too small.” I made the universal what can you do? gesture, palms in the air. “But we’re hoping to grow it. We need enthusiastic seniors like Flo to help us spread the word.”
    Maya leaned back. “Oh, she’s enthusiastic, all right. I’ll give her a ring. Do you volunteer a lot?”
    “Yep, since middle school. That’s my favorite part‌—‌” I cut myself off, before I could say it was my favorite part of the Carmichael presidential quest. That tidbit was never mentioned outside of Carmichael circles.
    “About being rich,” she ribbed me. To soften the blow, she placed a hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze.
    “No! It’s my favorite part of planning my career in politics.”
    “You want to be a senator, like your mom?” There wasn’t a trace of condescension on her face.
    “Not sure about senator. I like helping people. I want to help as many people as possible.” I didn’t add by being President of the United States.
    “That’s my dream‌—‌to be a community organizer. I know what it’s like to feel all alone in this big, bad, scary world.” Her grin didn’t reach her eyes.
    “Me too.” I stirred my soup with a spoon.
    I expected Maya to jeer, but her soft intake of breath conveyed how well she understood. “It’s strange. There are millions of people on this planet, but most of us feel like no one understands or cares. It doesn’t take much to change that. Imagine if everyone you saw simply said hello. You might feel less like an outsider.”
    Outsider.
    With one word, she’d described my life to a T. If I succeeded and became president, would I be even lonelier than I was now? Would I ever be able to meet another Maya?
    “Of course, now people only write hello ‌—‌they don’t say it.” Maya stopped and studied my face to see if I understood.
    I planted a smile. “You mean they hashtag hello.”
    ***
    A mist enveloped the grounds of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery moments after we arrived, as if the ghosts of Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Alcott were making their presence known. We’d spent the past forty-five minutes stumbling along muddy paths, locating the graves of the most famous residents. Their final resting place was park-like with slight hills and trees. The effect was beautiful and peaceful: no doubt the designer’s intent.
    We left Louisa May Alcott’s grave for last. Rain flecked our faces, prompting me to pop open an umbrella to protect us. Maya hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were glued to Alcott’s grave, and her body was motionless. Was she in a trance or tapping into some unknown reservoir of knowledge? It was a privilege to witness the connection. A frisson of attraction between us had been building all day. During lunch, Maya had rested a hand on my thigh and left it there for three and a half minutes, according to the clock on the wall behind the bar. It was the best 210 seconds of my life‌—‌so far.
    The pitter-patter of raindrops increased, pulling Maya out of her daze. She peered into my eyes and smiled, like she was letting me in on a secret. My lips puckered and the umbrella slipped in my hand, exposing us to the elements. A huge drop of rain splashed on my nose, startling me. Her grin widened as she brushed off the droplet, and then she rested her hand on my cheek. I closed my eyes, nuzzling into her touch.
    That was when it happened. Her lips were soft, like cashmere, and I instinctively opened my mouth to prompt her tongue to enter. The umbrella tumbled completely from my hand as I wrapped one arm around her waist and cupped the back of Maya’s head with the other, pulling her closer, my desire to become one intensifying. I fisted her hair, and she responded by deepening the kiss.
    I don’t think I’d understood the power of locking mouths until that moment. The sensuality. The longing. What had I been missing?
    Maya’s hand slipped under my shirt, and its iciness against my bare skin made me shiver. She