twenty five
The car was quiet as we pulled away from the house.
I didn't know what I was supposed to feel.
Six months, and still—sometimes—I couldn't quite believe any of this was real.
Six months of late-night drives and Sunday mornings that bled into afternoons. Six months of him pressing his face into my neck like I was something he'd been looking for longer than he wanted to admit.
Six months of trying to pretend it didn't terrify me that I'd never wanted anyone the way I wanted him.
The longest we'd gone without seeing each other was four days and that had only happened because he'd had to fly to D.C. on campaign business.
Even then, he'd called me every night. Just to hear me breathe, he'd said.
Now, we sat side by side, and I couldn't make myself say a single word.
I knew he could feel me folding in on myself, but I didn't know how to stop it.
We turned onto the highway, the dark fields slipping past in a blur.
His hand left the wheel, reaching across the console to rest on my knee.
I didn't look at him.
"Are you mad?" he asked quietly.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He exhaled, thumb tracing a slow line against my jeans.
"Then what is it?"
I pressed my lips together. "I'm just...thinking."
"I know," he murmured. "I know exactly what this silence means."
That surprised me enough to glance at him.
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're losing your mind in your head."
I looked back out the window. "I'm not."
"You are," he said, soft but certain. "You're trying to convince yourself this is all going to fall apart."
My throat felt tight.
"Amira." His hand squeezed gently. "I'm serious about you."
I closed my eyes.
"I know you are."
"Then believe me when I tell you—my parents will come around."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he said. "It might take them longer than I'd like, but they'll see what I see."
I swallowed. "And what do you see?"
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, in that low, certain voice that always unraveled me, he said, "I see the only thing I've ever been completely sure about."
I opened my mouth, but no words came.
Because that was the problem.
He was so sure.
And I was terrified I'd never catch up.
He didn't turn off at the exit for the city.
Instead, he kept driving, the roads getting emptier, the houses sparser.
I shifted in my seat. "You missed the turn."
"I know."
I waited for him to explain, but he didn't.
He just tightened his grip on the wheel like it was the only thing anchoring him there.
"Brooks."
"I'm not ready to go back," he said, his voice low.
I swallowed. "Back to what?"
He didn't answer.
Just kept driving, the headlights cutting a pale path across the asphalt.
We didn't talk again until he turned onto a smaller road lined with dark houses and weathered picket fences.
I recognized the neighborhood.
The boardwalk.
I'd only ever been here in the summer, when it was loud and bright and crowded.
Now, in the quiet, it felt almost haunted.
He parked in an empty lot, killed the engine, and finally looked at me.
His expression was careful, like he was bracing for me to say the thing he didn't want to hear.
After a moment, he climbed out and shut his door gently.
I sat there another few seconds, telling myself I could stay in the car.
But then he came around and opened my door, and the cold salt air spilled in, and some part of me uncoiled.
I stepped out.
The boards creaked under our shoes as we walked.
It smelled like salt and old wood.
I wrapped my arms around myself and kept my gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance.
Brooks didn't say anything for a while.
Just walked beside me, close enough I could feel the heat of him.
I wasn't sure if he was waiting for me to talk or if he was just as lost in his own head.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
"You hate this."
I didn't answer.
Because hate was the wrong word.
I didn't hate this.
I hated how easy it was to forget all the reasons I should run when he was close enough to touch.
I stopped at the railing, curling my fingers around the rough wood.
He mirrored me, resting his forearms beside mine.
"I used to come here when I was a kid," he said after a moment. "My dad would bring me on Sundays. Just the two of us."
I turned my head, surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah." He smiled a little, but it didn't reach his eyes. "He thought it was good for me to be somewhere nobody cared who we were."
I looked back out at the waves.
"I get it," I murmured.
His eyes searched mine, and for a second, I let myself believe he meant it exactly the way it sounded.
That he didn't see me as a problem.
That this wasn't an apology he was trying to buy.
He looked down at his hands, then back at me.
The air was damp and cold enough to sting my cheeks, but I didn't care.
It felt easier to focus on the ocean than to look at him.
Brooks stopped by the railing and braced his hands against it, his head bowed.
"I don't know what to say to make you feel better," he admitted.
I swallowed. "I don't think there's anything you can say."
He was quiet. The waves rolled in and out like they had all the time in the world.
Finally, I took a breath I'd been holding since we left his parents' house.
"She looked at me like I was so...less."
He didn't move, but his jaw flexed.
"Like I didn't deserve to be anywhere near you," I went on, voice thin. "Like I should've known better than to think this was allowed."
His shoulders rose and fell. "You know that's not true."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "But it felt true. And I hate that it got to me."
He turned then, leaning one hip against the railing so he could see my face.
"You shouldn't have to feel ashamed for anything."
I closed my eyes. "It's not just about her."
"What is it about?"
I swallowed hard. "Those pictures. Of me dancing."
He didn't say anything, but the silence told me he understood exactly which ones I meant.
"I know it's not...ideal," I said. "I know from the outside it looks cheap or desperate or whatever people like her think."
"It doesn't look like that to me," he said, his voice low.
I nodded, but it didn't help.
"Brooks, that job—this club—has done more for me than anything else I've tried," I whispered. "It pays my rent. It gave me friends who feel like family. It gave me...freedom. For the first time in my life."
He looked like he wanted to reach for me, but he didn't.
"And I hate that I stood there in front of your mom and felt like I had to apologize for any of it," I said. "Like I was caught doing something shameful when all I was doing was surviving."
"You don't owe anyone an apology," he said.
I shook my head. "You say that, but you also know it's going to be a problem. For them. For the campaign. For the way people talk about you."
He didn't deny it.
I took a shaky breath.
"I know you don't even know if you want this life," I said. "Politics. All of it."
His eyes flickered.
"But you don't know anything else," I went on, softer now. "You were born into it. It's practically in your blood."
He opened his mouth, but I kept talking before he could interrupt.
"I know how important their approval is to you. Even if you don't say it," I said. "And I don't want to be the thing that makes you lose it."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
He looked away, like he couldn't stand to hear it.
I pressed my palms to the railing, trying to ground myself.
"If you don't believe this can end well—if you're just hoping it might—I need you to be honest with me," I whispered. "Even if you're scared of losing me."
His throat bobbed.
"I'd rather you be real with me now," I said, "than have me find out later that you knew this was going to fall apart."
When he looked back at me, his eyes were raw in a way I'd never seen.
"I don't think it's going to fall apart," he said. "I think it's going to be hard. And I think people are going to say things we can't control."
I looked down, but he stepped closer, crowding into my space until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"But I also think you're the only thing in my life that feels...certain," he said quietly. "The only thing that doesn't feel like I'm performing for someone else."
I felt something sharp twist in my chest.
"I'm scared too," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean I want out."
I tried to swallow, but my throat was too tight.
We stood there, the waves crashing in the dark, the smell of salt thick in the air.
And even though I didn't know how to trust any of this, part of me wanted to try.
Just for a minute, I let myself lean in.
He pressed his forehead to mine, breathing me in like he couldn't help himself.
He wrapped his arms around me without hesitation, pressing his face into my hair.
His heartbeat was steady against my cheek.
And even though I didn't know how to trust it, I wanted to.
By the time we got back to the city, the sky had started shifting from black to that soft gray that meant morning wasn't far off.
I was so tired I felt hollow.
Brooks glanced over at me as we passed South Street, his hand resting on the console between us. "You sure you don't want to go home first?"
I shook my head. "It's late. I'll just get ready there."
He didn't argue.
When he pulled up to the curb outside the club, he shifted the car into park and turned to me.
"You don't have to work tonight if you don't want to."
I pressed my lips together. "I know."
"You could stay at my place."
"I know," I repeated, softer this time.
His eyes searched mine, careful. "Are you okay?"
I looked past him, out the window, where the neon sign flickered in the dark.
"I don't know," I admitted.
He didn't try to fill the silence that followed.
Just reached across the seat and took my hand, squeezing once before letting go.
"Text me when you're done," he said.
I nodded and pushed the door open before I could second-guess any of it.