The Measure(87)

“That’s not how I meant it,” Maura said. “I just think this rally could be really important.”

“And our wedding isn’t important?”

“Of course it is!” Maura exclaimed. “But today is really just about a party. This rally is about . . . my life.”

“And it pains me, knowing what you have to deal with,” Nina said. “But you’re already doing so much with your group. And you’ve gone to protests before. Maybe it’s okay for you to take one day off and enjoy the other aspects of your life.”

Maura paused for a moment and drew a breath. It frustrated her, sometimes, that Nina couldn’t see things the way she did.

For Nina, their relationship felt like enough. Their engagement rings were platinum proof that Nina could look beyond the strings and love Maura for the woman she was, not the time she’d been given. The family they were building together was Nina’s top priority. And, of course, that meant everything to Maura. But sometimes she just needed more. She needed to look beyond the small circumference of their lives, needed the rest of the world to see her as Nina did. As someone worth loving. As an equal.

“God, I wish I could take just one day off,” Maura said, “but I can’t. For my whole life, I’ve had to live every day making sure I don’t seem too angry or threatening or undeserving, because that would make Black people look bad, and making sure I don’t seem too sensitive or stupid or meek, because that would make women look bad, and now I can never seem too unstable or emotional or vengeful, because that would make short-stringers look bad. There are no breaks!” She let out a full, shaking breath. “And you know how much I’ve been searching for something, some way to feel like what I’m doing actually matters. Like I’m using my time for something good.”

Nina nodded slowly, absorbing Maura’s words. “You should go,” she finally said, her voice sincere. “I can take care of everything on this end.”

“Are you sure?” Maura asked.

“Yes. And I promise, next time I’ll be there with you.”



After they parked near the National Mall, Maura and her friends joined the crowd of nearly twenty thousand people spread across the base of the Martin Luther King, Jr., Memorial, spilling over to the nearby lawns, framed by branches now emptied of their rust-colored leaves. A large group at the center was cheering and chanting under a seven-foot banner reading “All Strings, Long and Short.”

Half a dozen news teams covered the event, perhaps because of the rumors that Anthony Rollins’s defector nephew might attend. But even with the added attention—and even with the groundswell of this new Strung Together movement online—Maura still wasn’t sure that it would be enough to prevent Rollins from winning the nomination that summer. Anytime she saw the news of another shooting, or the wreckage of a major car crash, Maura found herself praying that a short-stringer wasn’t at fault. The rest of her support group seemed convinced that the sands had already shifted. Every day that the hashtag trended, every public figure who expressed support, every news show that interviewed the student from South Africa, was proof, to her fellow group mates, that their lives could only improve. But Maura knew better than to blindly trust, or to risk growing complacent. She knew that things could always get worse, unless enough people kept on fighting.



When Maura returned to her apartment after a long day at the rally, she closed the door behind her as quietly as possible and stepped through to the dark living room, passing by the triptych of Ben’s sketches on the wall, like postcards from her life. Nina had adored the images, she nearly cried at the sight, despite the fact that Maura’s surprise had been upstaged by her proposal.

When Maura turned toward the kitchen, where Nina had left a single light shining, she spotted a piece of paper taped to the fridge, marked with Nina’s writing:

Hope the rally went well. There’s a cake sample inside. Trust me, you’ll love it.

I’m proud of you. Xo



Maura didn’t regret her choice. She was glad she went to D.C. But she was thankful that she could always return here, to her home, and to Nina, who at least accepted what Maura had to do, if she couldn’t always understand.

Maura peered inside the fridge, where a slice of chocolate cake sat in a clear plastic carton, tempting her with the smooth curves of its frosting. When she lifted it up, she noticed another piece of paper under the box.

You were right, we don’t need an elaborate party. We just need each other. And I don’t want to wait any longer. If we’re going to argue again, I’d much rather fight with my wife.

Will you marry me on Monday at City Hall?



Maura shut the door, shocked and silently elated. She crept into the bedroom, carefully unclasping a small gold pin with two intertwined strings from the top corner of her sweater, slipping off her clothes and dropping them into the hamper. Then she gingerly peeled back the sheets covering her side of the mattress and filled the empty space in bed, already warmed by the sleeping woman who, in just two days’ time now, would become Maura’s wife.



Maura knew that her parents might have preferred a church, or perhaps the lawn of a countryside estate, but a lot of what she had done in her life wasn’t exactly what her parents would have wanted. After flitting from job to job, from girlfriend to girlfriend, at least she was finally staying put, getting herself properly hitched, and to a woman her parents genuinely liked. (“Nina seems like she has a good head on her shoulders,” her father had said after they’d met.)