twenty one #2
He smiled faintly. "Yeah. Every summer, we went to Lake George. My dad was obsessed with it-said it was the only place he ever actually felt relaxed. My mom would pack up the house like we were moving there for good."
I tried to picture it-Brooks as a kid, sulking in the backseat in a little polo shirt, pretending to hate it but secretly loving it.
"That sounds nice," I said, because it did.
He studied me. "What about you? Anything like that?"
I hesitated, picking at the edge of the sheet. "No," I said quietly. "We didn't really...have those kinds of things."
His brow creased just a little, but he didn't push. Just kept his hand resting over my ribs, warm and steady.
For a while, we were quiet. His hand stayed over my ribs, thumb brushing small, careful arcs against my shirt. Like he could sense I was thinking about it-deciding.
I drew a slow breath. "The first night we met...you asked about my mom."
"I remember," he said softly. "You said she was around."
I let out a humorless little laugh. "That was a polite way of saying she's alive, but that's about it."
He didn't say anything-didn't try to smooth it over. Just watched me, patient.
"My dad..." I hesitated, pressing my lips together for a second before I went on. "He died when I was ten. Car accident. He was coming home from a shift. He always worked too much."
Brooks' palm slid up to cover my heart. "I'm sorry."
"He was the good one," I whispered. "Everybody loved him. Even my mom. Or...at least I thought she did."
His thumb moved in slow circles, waiting.
"After he died, she...wasn't the same," I said, voice thin. "I think some people break a little when something like that happens. But she didn't break. She hardened. Like there wasn't anything soft left in her at all."
I looked at the ceiling because it was easier than looking at him. "We moved around a lot. She dated a lot of different men. Some were fine. Most weren't."
The memory of Chris's hand on my arm flickered through me. I swallowed.
"I tried to stay out of the way," I said. "I got good at that-being invisible. Not asking for anything. Not needing too much."
Brooks didn't speak, but I felt the way his breath stuttered, like he was trying to find the right thing and didn't trust himself to say it yet.
"When I was fifteen...one of her boyfriends..." I stopped, my throat closing.
His hand tightened gently over my ribs, grounding.
"He tried to touch me," I said, voice small. "I told her. She didn't believe me."
I felt my eyes prick, but I kept going.
"She told me if I didn't like it there, I could leave."
A long silence fell.
I turned my head, needing to see his face-expecting pity, maybe, or that polite discomfort people get when they don't know how to handle other people's pain.
But there was none of that.
Just him. Watching me like none of this made me unworthy. Like he still saw the same person he always did.
I exhaled. "So I left. I went to Maryland. Stayed with my cousin Amaya. She and her boyfriend had this little place over a bodega. It was the first time in years I felt safe."
His thumb traced over my cheekbone, slow and reverent.
"But that didn't last," I whispered. "He...her boyfriend. One night, she was at work, and he tried to..."
I didn't finish. I didn't have to.
Brooks' jaw flexed, but he stayed silent.
"I left before she could make me," I said. "Before she could pick him over me, too."
I felt a tear slip, and his hand was there, brushing it away before it fell.
"I came here. I didn't have anything-no money, no plan, no family. I stayed in shelters. Worked whatever job would pay me under the table."
I looked at him, searching for some sign this was too much. That I was too much.
But he just shook his head, slow, like he already knew the answer.
"How old were you?" he asked, voice low.
"Seventeen."
He drew in a breath, exhaled slow. Like he was trying to rein something in.
I went on, softer. "One day, I was working a shift at this diner, and I met this girl-Tammy. She danced at a club. Said they were always hiring. I needed rent money."
"You were a kid," he said quietly.
"I didn't feel like one," I whispered.
He pulled me closer, his hand sliding to the back of my neck.
"You should have never had to do that alone," he said, voice rough.
"It's okay," I said, even though it wasn't. "I survived."
"You made something for yourself," he said. "You built yourself up on your own."
I pressed my face against his chest, breathing him in, feeling the quiet press of his hand over my hair.
And it struck me, in that hush-how easy it was to be here. How unscary it felt to be known.
When I finally spoke, my voice was steadier.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not looking at me like I'm broken."
He shifted, easing back just enough to look at me properly. His thumb traced the curve of my jaw.
"You're the farthest thing from broken," he said.
I felt something in my chest loosen-some hidden knot I hadn't even realized I was still carrying.
And in that quiet, with his breath warm against my cheek, I believed him.
His thumb was still moving over my wrist, slow and steady. The only sound in the room was the hush of our breathing and the faraway hum of the city.
I didn't realize I'd been staring at the ceiling until he spoke again, his voice low.
"Thank you for telling me and trusting me with that.l
"You don't talk about your family much either," I murmured.
He huffed a breath, tired and a little amused. "That's because it's...complicated."
"Complicated how?"
He hesitated. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked unsure.
"My dad has been in politics my whole life. Senator, Attorney General, President. My grandfather before him. It's always been...the plan. That I'd step into it next."
"And you...want that?"
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted past me, to some point I couldn't see.
"I don't know," he admitted finally. "I've never really had the space to figure it out. By the time I was fifteen, I was already being...groomed, I guess. Interviews, press appearances, public school events. Everything in my life was about optics. About proving I was worth the last name."
I stayed quiet, letting him find the words.
"You learn early not to trust anyone," he said, voice softer now. "Not really. Everyone either wants something from you or wants to be able to say they knew you. Even when you're a kid."
My heart pulled tight. "That sounds lonely."
"It was." He didn't try to dress it up. "Still is, sometimes."
I shifted closer, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart beat steady under my hand.
He covered it with his own. "I don't say that for sympathy. Just...so you know. It wasn't all perfect."
"I didn't think it was," I said quietly. "I just didn't know how to ask."
"You can always ask."
Something in my throat went tight. "What about your mom?"
He let out a low laugh, but it wasn't mean. Just tired.
"My mom is...she's brilliant. Strategic. She's the reason my dad ever made it this far. But she's also..." His jaw shifted like he was trying to find the right word. "Distant, I guess. Not unkind. Just...focused. The kind of focused that doesn't leave room for much else."
"Were they hard on you?"
He thought about that. "Not in the way people assume. They weren't cruel. But there was always this...expectation. That I'd follow in their footsteps. That I'd be the next Whitmore to take office. It wasn't a question."
He paused.
"And I don't know if that's what I want. Or if it's just the only thing I've ever been good at."
I felt something in my chest break for him a little.
"I think," I said slowly, "that's still better than not having any plan at all."
He looked down at me, his mouth curving. "Maybe."
"But it doesn't mean you don't get to figure it out," I added. "What you want. Who you are outside of all that."
"Maybe," he said again, quieter.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The hush between us felt...safe. Like we'd cracked something open we weren't ready to close again.
When he finally did speak, his voice was so soft I almost missed it.
"You know," he murmured, "I don't think I've ever told anyone all that."
"And you think I'm the one with walls," I whispered.
His mouth curved, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You are."
I swallowed, heart thudding. "So are you."
"Yeah," he admitted. "I guess I am."
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing me in. Like he needed the closeness to say the next thing.
"But it doesn't feel as hard with you."
My chest ached in the best, worst way.
"Me either," I whispered.
We stayed like that, quiet and close, until the city outside slipped into something softer.