thirty-four
The living room was quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV.
CNN was on, graphics flashing poll numbers in red and blue, a scrolling ticker feeding constant updates. Every so often, one of the anchors would raise their voice a little too much, and I'd glance over at the screen, waiting to hear his name.
It was strange, seeing his life from this distance.
The camera would pan to a crowd at a rally or cut to footage of Brooks shaking hands in a voting precinct earlier that morning, and I'd think - I was with him just last night.
He'd kissed me in the kitchen before heading out, coffee in hand, telling me he'd be too busy today for more than a few quick texts.
I pulled my knees up on the couch, a folded blanket pooled around my lap, and tried to focus on the basket of laundry next to me. Folding clothes felt grounding - something I could control when the rest of the night was bigger than me.
Tank tops, socks, one of Brooks's button-downs that still smelled faintly like his cologne. I held it for a second too long before setting it in the pile.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I smiled faintly, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
The dots blinked.
My smile faded.
Me Just... not my place tonight.
She sent back a heart emoji, the kind that was equal parts understanding and I'll leave it alone before you get annoyed.
On TV, one of the anchors was standing in front of a giant map, explaining which counties still had votes to be counted.
Brooks's name was printed in clean white text under his photo in the corner.
I tried to imagine what it was like wherever he was - the noise, the cameras, the people clinking champagne glasses when numbers started to tip his way.
The dryer upstairs beeped. I left the basket on the couch and went to get the rest of the clothes, padding barefoot across the hardwood.
The upstairs hallway was dim, only the bathroom light spilling out onto the floor. I pulled the warm clothes from the dryer and inhaled the faint lavender scent of the fabric softener. Little things like that made the house feel more like mine, even though I knew deep down it wasn't really mine.
Back downstairs, I started another pile - his T-shirts, my leggings, a hoodie we shared so often I couldn't remember who'd bought it.
Another buzz from my phone. This time it was Tati.
I glanced at the TV again - one of the anchors was saying words like "strong lead" and "likely win." My chest tightened.
That earned a small laugh out of me.
She sent back a champagne glass emoji and left it at that.
The minutes stretched. Numbers shifted on the screen, tiny percentages creeping up in his favor. I folded the last of the laundry and carried it upstairs, setting it neatly on the dresser.
When I came back down, I lit one of the candles on the coffee table. The flame made the shadows in the room dance, softening the edges. I poured myself a glass of wine, sat back on the couch, and tucked the blanket around me again.
The coverage had switched to a shot of the party venue - low lighting, people mingling, the hum of anticipation you could feel even through the screen. I wondered if Margot was there.
Then I caught myself wondering why I even wondered.
The anchor's voice lifted - "And with 92% of precincts reporting..." - and I knew before the numbers even flashed that it was over.
It felt... surreal. Not bad, not even bittersweet. Just... far away from me.
I picked up my phone, opened our thread, and stared at the blank message field. Finally, I typed.
I hit send before I could think too much about it, then immediately opened Instagram, searching for the hashtags and profiles I knew would have something from inside the party.
The sent message sat there, a neat blue bubble against the thread.
No reply.
I refreshed Instagram and typed his name into the search bar. His official campaign page was already posting updates - the victory banner with his face, the caption a formal Thank you to the people of Pennsylvania.
I scrolled past that and into the territory where I knew I'd find what I was really looking for: stories from mutual acquaintances, people I'd met through him, people I'd never even spoken to but had learned to track like breadcrumbs when I wanted to know what was going on in his world.
The first clip I opened was from some political aide I barely remembered - Brooks on stage, smiling wide, shaking hands with a man I didn't recognize. Flashbulbs lit the background, and a crowd cheered.
Tap.
The next was from someone I did remember: Margot.
Her story opened to a photo of the two of them, champagne flutes raised, her arm looped through his. The caption: What a night Congratulations, Senator.
He was grinning. She was beaming, leaning into him like they'd known each other their whole lives.
Tap.
A video from another account - Brooks laughing at something Margot said, his hand brushing her elbow as they moved through a crowded room. Someone off-camera shouted his name, and he turned, waving, the moment between them broken. But I'd already felt the twist in my stomach.
I reminded myself - PR. Politics. Nothing I hadn't seen before.
Still, the thought settled like a stone: I'd never be in a room like that with him. Never stand beside him with a camera flash catching me mid-laugh, never be the one he introduced to donors and colleagues.
Not the public one.
I kept scrolling. More champagne toasts, more smiles, more speeches from other people in suits. My thumb hovered over the screen like stopping would mean admitting it hurt more than it should.
A text from Sam popped up at the top:
I ignored it. Not because I didn't want to talk - but because I didn't trust myself not to say the wrong thing.
The TV was still on, the anchors still talking about his win, but my eyes stayed on the small, glowing screen in my hands.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I must have watched fifteen different angles of the same damn moment before I finally set the phone down, face-first, and let my head fall back against the couch.
My chest felt warm and tight all at once. Proud of him, yes. But also aware that there was a part of his life - the part he'd just stepped fully into tonight - where I could only ever be an observer.
I'd moved upstairs by the time I heard the front door open.
The clock on my nightstand read 1:12 a.m. The house was quiet except for the muffled sound of his voice, deep and low, saying goodnight to someone as the door clicked shut.
I didn't rush to meet him. I stayed curled up on the bed, laptop still open beside me with half a dozen tabs for commercial real estate listings in Jersey.
None of them felt right, but I couldn't stop looking.
Like maybe if I found the perfect space, it would make the loss of Evelyn's offer sting less.
Footsteps on the stairs. Then, Brooks appeared in the doorway, jacket slung over his arm, tie loose, hair slightly mussed like he'd run his hands through it one too many times.
"Hey," he said, voice warm and tired all at once.
"Hi."
He came over and leaned down to kiss me, slow and lingering, smelling faintly of whiskey and the cold night air. When he pulled back, there was that grin - the kind that belonged on victory posters.
"Senator," I said quietly.
His smile deepened. "You heard?"
"Hard to miss."
He set his jacket on the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee brushed mine. His hands found my hips, gentle but insistent, guiding me toward him until I was standing between his legs.
"It was a good night. Long, but good," he said, voice low.
I studied his face. The little creases at the corners of his eyes. The faint flush in his cheeks. He looked younger, somehow - lighter than he had in weeks.
"I'm proud of you," I said, my fingers smoothing over his collar like they had a mind of their own.
His gaze softened, and then his hands slid up my waist, resting just under my ribs, warm through the fabric of my top. "I love you."
It wasn't loud or performative - just simple, steady, like a truth he didn't have to dress up.
The words hit something deep in me. "I love you too," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
For a moment, we just stood there, looking at each other, like we were both trying to memorize something. He tugged me closer until my knees brushed the bedframe, and I felt the heat of him even through his shirt. His thumb brushed along my side, then up, tracing lazy circles at the edge of my ribs.
I hesitated, my voice soft. "Does this... change anything?"
He stilled, his hand warm against me. "Of course not."
But the look in his eyes didn't match the certainty in his voice. There was something else there - something I couldn't name but felt all the same.
I forced a smile, smoothing my hand over his chest. "Good. Because I am proud of you."
"I know you are." His fingers slid into my hair, tilting my head back so he could kiss me - slow at first, then deeper, like he meant for it to land.
I leaned into him, letting the moment carry me, but deep down, I could already feel it - the shift, subtle but there, like a change in air pressure before a storm.
When he finally pulled back, our foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling.
His hands slipped down to rest on my thighs, thumbs brushing in slow, absent circles.
Neither of us spoke. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but it wasn't light either - like there was something unsaid sitting between us, warm but heavy.
His eyes searched mine for a beat, and then he kissed me again, softer this time, as if sealing something in place.
I let myself stay there for another moment, memorizing the way his touch felt and how safe it almost was, even as a quiet truth sat in my chest like a stone.
Some part of me already knew - this was the start of the shift.
NGL i was struggling really bad with this chapter which is why the update took so long but I figured to just leave it where it's at.
My man and I are into it rn so until we get back right yall will suffer ????
blame him not me
Also, random thought, I got the inspiration for this book while listening to the wire by mariah the scientist almost immediately after writing Almost Always.
I wonder what song will give me my next inspiration after this one is done ?????