23.0
The café smelled like butter and espresso—loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough that the walls didn't listen.
I got there early, like always. I'd picked the booth by the window because I wanted space to breathe and light to hide behind.
I wasn't nervous exactly... just aware. The kind of awareness that comes when you're about to face someone who once knew everything about you.
Sam walked in like she always did—sure of her steps, sunglasses still on inside, a smirk that said I'm late, but at least I look good. She spotted me instantly. That dimple appeared, the one that always made people forgive her for anything.
"You look good," she said as she slid into the seat across from me.
"So do you." I smiled. "I'm glad you reached out."
"Me too." She picked at the edge of a napkin. "I almost didn't."
"Why?"
"I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me," she admitted. "After how things ended..."
My throat tightened. "I wanted to. I just didn't know how."
There was a beat of silence, then she reached across the table. "I was angry," she said. "And I handled it wrong. You fell in love, and I made it about me. Our lives were just constantly changing at that time. Tati had moved away I was just scared you choosing him meant I was losing you too."
I looked at her hand, then back at her face. "It didn't," I said quietly. "Things just... got complicated. I was trying to protect what we had by not saying too much."
"Which was perfectly fine. I see that now."
The waiter came by, and we ordered like we used to.
When he left, Sam leaned back. "So... how are you? Really."
I smiled faintly. "I have a daughter."
Her eyes went wide, and for a second she didn't blink. "You what?"
"Her name's Alina."
"Alina," she repeated, voice gentle. "That's beautiful."
I nodded, smiling to myself. "She is. She's got my mouth, his eyes, and enough attitude for three people."
"'His eyes'," Sam echoed, carefully. "Brooks?"
I hesitated before nodding. "Yeah."
Sam's expression shifted—not judgmental, not surprised, just... full. "You're still in touch?"
"He's in her life now," I said quietly. "It's been about a month."
Sam let out a slow breath, eyes softening. "That must've been... a lot."
"It was," I said honestly. "But it's good now. Or at least—getting there."
She nodded like she understood something bigger than what I said aloud. "I'm glad things are working out.."
"I am too." A pause. It wasn't in neither of our best interest for me to tell her things were honestly the same way between Brooks and I as they were before.
The food came, and for a while, conversation came easy. She told me about her life—how she moved out of the city, how she's been working at a hospital she actually likes and then her smile softened again. "I've been with someone for the past two years," she said.
My heart warmed instantly. "Really? Tell me everything."
Her face lit up. "Her name's Rylan. We met at a birthday party, and you know me, meeting people at parties was always a red flag to me."
"Worked, though," she said proudly. "She's steady. Kind. She's the first person who makes me want to be patient. That's... new for me."
I smiled. "I'm really happy for you, Sam."
"Yeah?" she asked, searching my face.
"Yeah," I said softly. "You deserve that kind of good."
Her eyes shimmered. "Thanks, Mira."
We ate and talked about everything and nothing—Tati's wedding, the heat in Houston, the fact that she and Rylan might fly out early to help. I told her I'd try to come down with Alina for the weekend. She practically clapped.
After a while, we just sat there. The plates were empty, the coffee cold, but neither of us moved. The world outside the window was moving, though—people hurrying past, sunlight catching in little flashes on cars. Inside, everything felt still.
"I missed you," she said suddenly. "I didn't realize how much until right now."
I swallowed. "I missed you too."
"Do you think we can fix this?" she asked, voice tentative for the first time all day.
"I think we already started," I said.
Her lips pressed together like she was holding back tears. "I want to know her," she said quietly. "Your daughter."
"She'd love you," I said. "She'd probably talk your ear off."
"Good," Sam said with a grin. "You owe me for the years I couldn't bug you."
We walked out together after paying, slower than necessary. The air was warm, sunlight catching on the rim of her sunglasses again. For the first time in a long time, the goodbye didn't ache.
"I'll call you," she said.
"Please do."
She smiled, and it felt like forgiveness. Not dramatic. Just steady.
I stood there a moment after she left, letting it sink in.
Maybe friendship doesn't end—it just waits. Sometimes it grows quiet until you're both brave enough to speak again.
By the time I got home, the sun had already dipped behind the row houses, turning the living room gold for a few minutes before fading to gray. I dropped my purse on the counter, kicked off my shoes, and tried to ignore the dull ache pulsing behind my eyes.
Alina was in one of her moods.
It started over nothing—the wrong plate, the wrong cartoon, maybe just the wrong side of the day. I didn't have the patience to trace it.
"Can you please just sit and eat?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
"I don't want turkey," she said, arms crossed tight over her chest.
"It's not turkey, it's chicken."
"It looks like turkey."
"Alina."
Her bottom lip stuck out further. "I want the pink cup."
"The pink cup's dirty."
"So wash it."
I set the fork down slowly, counting in my head. "Use the blue one."
"I don't like the blue one."
Something in me snapped, quiet but sharp. "Then don't drink anything."
Her eyes went wide. Then she pushed her plate away with both hands. "You're being mean."
"Alina, I'm not washing the pink cup when the blue one is perfectly fine."
She stood there for a second—tiny, defiant, curls frizzed from the humidity—and I could see the tears welling even before she shouted back.
"I want my dad!"
It landed like a slap.
My mouth opened, then closed again, because what was I supposed to say?
She didn't even know what she meant. But I did.
Every week, Brooks came and went, and every time, she lit up in ways that made my heart ache with something between pride and fear. She didn't even know Brooks as her dad—just Mommy's friend.
I swallowed hard. "Alina—"
But she was already stomping down the hall, her little feet slapping against the wood.
The door to her room shut with a final, tiny thud that somehow echoed.
The house went too quiet.
I sat down at the table, staring at the half-eaten food. My eyes burned before I even felt the tears. I pressed the heels of my hands into them, like I could push the ache away.
I didn't even hear the phone ring until the screen lit up against the counter—Brooks. FaceTime.
I hesitated, wiped my face fast, then answered. His image filled the screen, half-dim lighting and a suit jacket still on.
"Hey," I said, voice scratchy.
He frowned immediately. "You've been crying."
I gave a small, useless laugh. "Is this my new brand?"
He didn't smile. "What happened?"
"Nothing," I said, tucking my knees up on the chair. "Just a long day."
His eyes softened—skeptical, but kind. "You sure?"
I nodded, forcing it. "Yeah. Just mom stuff."
He didn't push, though I could tell he wanted to. His expression was the same mix of concern and restraint he wore the first time he'd met Alina—careful, deliberate, like every word might set something off.
He leaned back in his chair, the camera shifting. "Where's she?"
"In her room. We got in a fight."
"About what?"
I huffed a small breath. "Cups. Dinner. Life."
He smiled faintly. "Sounds dramatic."
"It was," I said. "She gets that from you."
That made him laugh, low and soft, the kind that cracked something open in me.
There was a pause then—a comfortable one. I could hear chatter in the background—people talking, laughter that sounded too polished.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"D.C.," he said. "First debate night. Bryan's doing the opening press circuit. I'm supposed to be smiling next to him looking supportive."
"Sounds like fun."
He smirked. "Yeah. It's a circus. Everyone's pretending they don't already know who's getting the nomination."
"You sound so sure you guys are the favorite."
"I'm more than sure," he said. "I just know how these things go."
The camera wobbled slightly, catching flashes of light behind him—hotel lamp, tie undone, the faint exhaustion clinging to his eyes.
"You're doing great, though," he said after a beat. "Even if it doesn't feel like it."
"Yeah?" I asked, voice smaller than I meant.
"Yeah," he said. "You're raising her right. You're consistent. That's more than most."
I tried to smile, but my throat tightened again. "You're getting good at speeches."
"I've been a senator for a few years," he said. "I'd hope I could give one."
"You'd think," I teased, and he smiled—really smiled this time.
For a second, it almost felt like the old days. The easy part of us. The part that existed before everything had names and labels and expectations.
"How's she been with me lately?" he asked. "When I'm over."
"She likes you," I said honestly. "More than I expected her to."
"She told me I'm fun," he said, almost proud.
I laughed. "That's a big compliment coming from her."
"Good," he said quietly. Then, after a pause, "One day she'll know."
The softness in his voice pulled something deep in me. "Yeah," I said. "Soon."
He nodded, slow and understanding, like he didn't want to push me past what I could handle. "Alright," he said after a beat. "I should go. Bryan's calling."
"Okay," I said, brushing at my cheeks one last time. "Good luck tonight. Thanks for calling."
His gaze lingered on me for a second longer than it should've. "Always."
The call ended, and the screen went black.