27.0 #2
Because if Margot was lying, then it wasn't to protect her image — it was to remind me that she still could.
That she could walk into a room, smile like that, and make me question the ground I was standing on.
I exhaled slowly, letting my head fall back against the window. The glass was cool against my skin.
Maybe that was her point.
Maybe she wanted me to know that no matter how much peace I found, she'd always know how to find the crack in it.
I sat there for a while after, just staring at the steering wheel. The hum of the city floated up from below — horns, footsteps, the faint thrum of a passing train — but it all sounded distant, like I was underwater.
I wasn't even sure why my chest felt tight. Maybe because a part of me — the part I hated admitting still existed — was scared Margot had been telling the truth.
That maybe all this softness, all this change in Brooks, was something I'd built in my head.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and called him.
He answered on the second ring, his voice smooth, easy. "Hey."
I swallowed, suddenly unsure of what I even wanted to say. "Where are you?"
There was a pause, like he was trying to figure out the question behind the question. "Just left CNN. We had a quick interview for the morning segment. Why?"
I exhaled, relief and embarrassment colliding in the same breath. "Oh. Nothing. Just—wanted to check."
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I said quickly, then winced. "I just... ran into Margot."
That got his attention. "Oh?"
"At the mall," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "She said she was on her way to pick you up from the airport. I wasn't sure if—"
Brooks laughed, low and genuine, and I felt the tension in my shoulders start to loosen.
"Sounds like something Margot would do," he said. "She loves a good performance."
I swallowed. "She said she sent me an invitation to the wedding."
"The wedding?"
"Yeah." I laughed once, short and uneasy. "Remember when you said you didn't know how I got an invitation? Turns out it was her."
He exhaled through the line, a low sound that wasn't quite a sigh. "How'd she even get your address?"
"I have no idea." The sound of his voice made me smile in spite of myself. "So, you're not—"
"About to go meet Margot at arrivals? No," he said, still amused. "Here I was thinking you were calling just to talk to me, and it turns out you were fact-checking me."
I laughed, shaking my head even though he couldn't see it. "You make it sound bad."
"It's not," he said softly. "It's kind of cute."
My pulse tripped a little at that. "I feel silly now."
"You should," he said. "I'm leaving for the airport in a few hours, though. Land around seven. I'll stop by after."
"Okay."
"Don't stress, alright? Margot's lives for nothing but to get under people skin."
"Yeah." I paused, staring at the reflection of the city lights across my windshield. "I know."
When we hung up, I sat there for another minute, the phone still in my hand. The knot in my chest had eased, replaced by something quieter — relief, maybe or guilt for even doubting him at all.
By the time I made it to Alina's daycare, the late-afternoon sun had softened to gold. Kids were spilling out into the yard with backpacks bigger than their bodies, and the air smelled faintly of crayons and fruit snacks.
Alina spotted me before I even stepped inside. "Mommy!" she yelled, running full speed until she crashed into my legs.
I laughed, crouching to scoop her up. "Hey, peanut. Did you have fun today?"
She nodded so hard her curls bounced. "We did and I feed the class fish."
"Lucky fish," I said, brushing a smudge of marker off her cheek.
We walked to the car hand in hand, her little fingers swinging mine back and forth like a pendulum.
The drive to the bakery was short — muscle memory by now. The same one Brooks had taken me to on our first date. The same one we always somehow found our way back to.
The bell above the door jingled when we walked in. The scent hit immediately — butter, sugar, something warm that felt like home.
Alina pressed her hands to the glass display. "Chocolate cake!" she gasped, like it was the first time she'd ever seen it.
"Chocolate cake it is," I said, smiling.
We grabbed a small table by the window.
Alina was humming under her breath, her fork stabbing happily at the frosting. She got more on her face than in her mouth, but I didn't bother stopping her.
For a while, I just watched her — the way her curls fell into her eyes, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed.
My chest tightened, but in the best kind of way.
"So," I said lightly, tracing the edge of my napkin. "You like Mr. Brooks, huh?"
She looked up, lips covered in chocolate. "Mmhm he's funny and he make good pancakes."
"Yeah, he does." I smiled. "You like when he hangs out with you?"
She nodded, already distracted by another bite.
I hesitated, the words sitting heavy in my throat. "What if I told you something about him?"
She blinked, curious now. "Like what?"
I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. "Like... he's not just Mr. Brooks."
Alina tilted her head, fork midair. "He's not?"
"No." I reached across the table and wiped a bit of frosting from her chin. "He's your dad."
Her eyes widened. "My dad?"
"Yeah, baby." My voice cracked a little on the word. "Your dad."
For a second, she just stared at me — like she was trying to figure out if it was a joke and then her whole face lit up.
"Really?" she whispered.
"Really."
She squealed, the sound pure and unfiltered. "I knew it!" she said, bouncing in her seat. "I knew it! 'Cause he hugs me like Daddy hugs on TV."
I couldn't help laughing, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "Yeah, something like that."
She clapped her hands, chocolate smearing everywhere. "Can I call him daddy?"
"Tonight," I said softly. "When you see him."
She nodded, solemn like it was a pact. Then, after a beat, "Can we get him a cake too?"
I smiled. "I already did."
We finished the slices slowly, the sun dipping lower until the glass panes caught the last of the orange light.
For the first time in a long time, I felt something close to peace.
Like maybe — just maybe — we were about to start again.
By the time we got home, the sky had deepened into that soft, in-between blue that always felt like a secret. The living room smelled faintly of frosting and vanilla candles, balloons half-deflated from Alina's relentless "testing."
She was sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by tangled ribbons and empty gift bags, humming to herself as she tried to tie a bow around one of the presents.
"Sweetheart," I said, crouching beside her, "that's not how bows work."
"Yes it is," she said confidently, looping the ribbon twice around her wrist instead of the box.
"Close enough," I laughed.
On the table, the cake sat under its plastic dome — simple chocolate, the kind he always reached for when he thought no one was looking.
I'd stuck a few gold candles in the top and scattered confetti around it.
The decorations weren't perfect, but they felt like us — warm, slightly chaotic, stitched together with love and effort.
The clock on the wall read 8:25
Brooks's flight had landed an hour ago. He'd texted once.
I checked the mirror by the door for what must've been the tenth time. My hair was down, the black tank dress casual but clean, soft. I told myself I didn't care what I looked like — that it was just his birthday — but the flutter in my stomach said otherwise.
Alina crawled onto the couch, knees tucked under her chin. "Mommy, what if he doesn't see the decorations right away?"
"He'll see them," I said. "You made sure of that."
She giggled, proud of herself. "I'm gonna yell surprise."
"Not too loud," I warned.
We waited. The house felt alive with anticipation — the faint rustle of balloons brushing against each other, the quiet tick of the thermostat, the hum of the refrigerator.
When the knock came, it startled me anyway.
Alina gasped. "He's here!"
"Shh," I whispered, but she was already halfway to the door.
I followed, my heart thudding so hard it felt ridiculous.
When I opened it, he was there — suitcase in one hand, jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair was slightly messy, eyes tired but warm.
"Hey," he said, and the sound of it — that familiar ease — made my chest ache in the best way.
He stepped inside, setting his bag down. The first thing he saw were the balloons, the candles, the small cluster of gift bags.
"What's all this?"
"Surprise," I said, trying not to grin.
He turned to look at me, that slow smile spreading across his face. "You did all this?"
"Technically, we did," I said, nodding toward the couch where Alina was attempting to hide behind a pillow.
He laughed, shaking his head. "I see that."
Then he looked back at me, his eyes softened, landing somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Come here," he said, voice low.
I did, stepping closer until his hand found the small of my back. He kissed me — soft at first, then deeper, slower, until Alina's giggle from behind the couch broke us apart.
"You're pretty old now," I teased when I pulled back.
He groaned, mock-offended. "Thirty-two isn't old."
"It's not twenty-five."
He laughed again, the sound easy, full. He kissed the corner of my mouth once more before glancing around. "Where's my co-conspirator?"
Right on cue, Alina popped up from behind the pillow, face glowing. "Happy birthday, Daddy!" she shouted, her little hands thrown into the air.
The word hung there — Daddy — soft, round, and perfect.
Brooks froze. The smile faltered for just a heartbeat before something new took its place — quiet disbelief. His eyes flicked to me, searching, like he needed to make sure he'd heard her right.
"You—what did you say?" he asked, voice low, almost careful.
Alina giggled, bouncing on her toes. "Happy birthday, Daddy!"