12.0 #2
She blinked, thrown, then tightened. "Pretending what?"
"Pretending this works." My hand cut between us. "So spare me the performance and let me shower in peace."
The silence after landed heavier than anything she said. Her throat moved; she grabbed her bag.
"I'll be back after class," she said, clipped. "Maybe by then you'll be ready to act like an adult."
I shut the shower door before she finished, the slam echoing louder than her exit.
The slam of the bathroom door was still in my head when the car door shut behind me an hour later. Different sound, same weight.
By the time I hit the curb outside headquarters, the switch had flipped. Sunglasses on, jacket pressed, stride measured. Cameras were there, as they always were, catching me in morning light.
Yes, the clip had been messy. Yes, I'd let myself slip. That was yesterday. Today, I was back on script—handshakes firm, smile sharp, soundbites clean.
"Morning, Senator," someone called, too brightly, as I crossed the lobby.
Inside, the staff buzzed like a hive. Schedules were being adjusted, soundbites polished, talking points stacked in neat folders. I let them hand me what I needed, nodding at the right beats. Every smile felt heavy, rehearsed, but I didn't miss.
My phone lit up during the first meeting — not Amira, of course. Mom.
Mom
Your father wants you to come by tonight. He thinks it's important.
I stared at the words until someone cleared their throat across the table. I slid the phone face down. Important always meant strategy, optics, control. Never meant me.
The briefing rolled on. Fundraising targets, polling numbers, a senator I was expected to charm at a gala next week. I played the part—calm, competent, every answer tight and on message. The team seemed relieved, which told me how worried they'd been.
But between notes on trade policy and questions about my "personal narrative," I kept reaching for my phone.
By noon I couldn't stop myself.
The question hung there while the world spun around me.
Hours later, when the last meeting ended and the noise dulled, her reply lit the screen.
It knocked more air out of me than any headline ever could.
Her typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. Appeared again.
Finally.
Memories hit hard—the last time we'd crossed paths there, all the others before it, layered like ghosts I couldn't shake.
The screen dimmed, but the adrenaline didn't. I sat there for a moment, thumb still hovering like she might take it back, change her mind. She didn't.
I tucked the phone away, but it followed me into every room after that.
Back into another briefing, numbers climbing across a screen.
Someone droned about donor tiers, someone else about the governor's endorsement, and I nodded when I was supposed to.
None of it stuck. My mind was two miles south, under the trees at Rittenhouse, where I hadn't set foot in years without her shadow on the bench beside me.
The meeting dragged on, though I couldn't have repeated a word of it back if someone asked. By four, the staff had me signing papers, nodding at strategy bullet points, posing for a photo opp. None of it stuck.
What did stick was the time crawling toward eight.
By six, I was in the car, the city sliding past the window in smears of late light. I told Monte to drive slow, to cut through Chestnut instead of Market. I wanted noise, crowds, anything to bleed off the nerves clawing at me.
We passed the old bakery I hadn't thought about in years. I heard myself say, "Pull over."
The place smelled the same—powdered sugar, pistachio, lemon. I bought two lemon squares and two pistachio cannoli's without thinking, like my body remembered what my head had spent years trying to forget.
By the time I reached the square, the box was warm in my hand, the city lights blinking on around me. And then there she was.
The sight stopped me cold. For years I'd kept this image in fragments—memory blurred with wish—but now it was whole, sharp.
I crossed the path quietly until I was standing in front of her, just a step closer than polite. She looked up.
God, I'd forgotten how much I liked that—Amira looking up at me. Not just her eyes, but the tilt of her chin, the way she always paused first, as though cataloguing what she saw before giving me the courtesy of recognition. Every time it felt like permission, like she was choosing to see me.
"Brooks," she said, soft, like she'd been caught thinking of me and resented it.
"Amira." My voice betrayed me, heavier than I wanted it.
For a beat I only let myself enjoy the view she gave me—her knees angled toward the path, one hand braced on the bench, the city pressing on behind us but her gaze locked on mine.
There was something about the angle of her chin, the half-skeptical way she studied me, that made it impossible not to remember all the times she'd looked up like this before.
Like she was measuring if I still deserved her attention.
"I brought something," I said finally, lifting the box that had grown ridiculous in my hand. "Peace offering."
That broke a smile on her face—small, reluctant, but real—as she reached for the box. "I haven't had this place in years."
I eased down beside her, the bench creaking faintly under our shared weight. My shoulder brushed the edge of her hair as she opened the lid, the faint sweetness rising like memory.
She pinched off a corner of a lemon bar and popped it into her mouth, eyes closing for just a second longer than necessary. "Still the best," she murmured.
I couldn't help watching her, the way sugar dust clung at the corner of her lip until she swiped it away. "Worth the detour, then," I said, quieter than I meant.
She tilted her head, half amused, half guarded. "Detour or excuse?"
"Both," I admitted. "Mostly excuse."
The box rested between us. I leaned back against the bench, arm brushing hers by accident or design, I couldn't decide. "So," I asked, trying to sound casual, "what've you been up to all this time?"
She hesitated, like she was flipping through answers before settling on one. "Cosmetology school," she said finally. "Graduated, licensed. I've been working in a shop."
I turned to look at her, surprised but not really. It fit. "What happened to the salon suite?"
Her eyes flicked down to the box, her fingers brushing crumbs from her lap. She didn't answer right away, just nodded slightly, like that gesture alone could close the subject.
"That dream's still in you," I said, softer, more certain than I should've.
She drew in a breath, exhaled slow. "A lot happened for me to get where I am," she said, her tone measured, almost rehearsed. "But I'm... content."
I didn't press. I could feel the wall of it—the finality she wanted in that word. Content.
She shifted then, turning her head toward me. "What about you? What's your life look like now?" A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "Family, Margot... all of that?"
The air cooled between us. I leaned back, arm stretched along the back of the bench, eyes on the trees instead of her.
"Family's... family," I said after a pause. "They're louder than ever, but they always think they know best. Dad especially. Mom plays referee."
Her mouth curved, just slightly. "Sounds familiar."
I let out a laugh, but there wasn't humor in it. "You know how it is. I've been in campaign mode for years. Meetings, appearances, the same rooms over and over, full of people who like the sound of their own voices." I gave her a sidelong glance. "Present company excluded."
That earned me another small smile, but it didn't last. "And Margot?"
I caught the name like a stone in my throat. I looked forward again, buying myself a moment.
"She's..." I started, then stopped. A politician in me wanted to spin it, but she'd always seen straight through me. "She fits the part. Perfect on paper. And she's—" I shrugged, letting the unfinished sentence hang.
"Perfect on paper," she echoed softly, as if testing the words.
I nodded, jaw tightening. "That's what everyone keeps saying. Doesn't make it easier to hear."