thirty-five
She was half-hunched over the menu with a mimosa sitting in front of her. She glanced up, smirked.
"Wow. Look who decided to show up."
"I'm not late," I said, shrugging out of my coat. "Technically."
"You're thirteen minutes late."
"Which is basically on time for me." I slid into the seat across from her, stealing a sip of her mimosa without asking.
The waitress came by to take our order. Sam got the pancakes; I went with an omelet.
The place was busy enough that the background noise turned into a steady hum, making it feel like we were tucked away in our own little pocket.
We caught up on the easy stuff — her last shift at the club, the friend of a friend who just got engaged, some drama on reality TV we both pretended we were above but never missed.
For a while, it was just that — nothing heavy, nothing loaded. Just us.
Then, somewhere between her second cup of mimosa and the waitress setting down our plates, Sam asked it.
"So... how's the salon stuff going?"
It was casual. Gentle, even. She didn't lean forward like she was about to pry. She just kept cutting into her pancakes, like my answer wasn't going to change the air between us.
"Good," I said, too quickly. "I'm... taking my time."
She nodded slowly. "Taking your time."
I forced a smile. "Yeah. No point in rushing into the wrong space, you know?"
Inside, I felt the lie sitting heavy in my chest. The truth was, I'd been looking. For weeks. And everything I saw was either too expensive, too small, in the wrong part of town, or just didn't feel right. Lately, I'd stopped even opening the listings.
And underneath all of that, there was the sharper thought I tried not to touch: if I hadn't canceled that meeting with Evelyn to go smile politely at Brooks's mother, maybe things would've been different.
Maybe Evelyn would've seen me as someone serious.
Instead, all I'd walked away with that night was the memory of being looked at like I didn't belong.
Sam didn't push, but she looked at me for a beat longer than necessary, and I knew she heard everything I didn't say.
"Well," she said finally, "when you do find the right space, it's gonna be bomb. I already know."
"From your lips to God's ears." I stabbed at my omelet, hoping the heat in my face wasn't obvious.
She switched the subject to her graduation — only four months away now — and how her aunt was already planning some big family dinner. We drifted back into lighter territory, and I let myself relax again.
We finished eating, and while waiting for the check, we people-watched like we always did. A guy in a suit two tables over was clearly on a first date — the nervous way he kept adjusting his tie gave it away. Sam leaned in and whispered, "She's not into him."
"How do you know?"
"She hasn't laughed once. And that's, like, his third story."
Sure enough, ten minutes later, she got up and left him sitting there with the check.
By the time we paid and stepped out into the sharp afternoon air, my face hurt from smiling.
The heaviness from earlier felt like it had lifted.
But as we hugged goodbye, the weight of that one unanswered question — the one I'd sidestepped without even blinking — still lingered, quiet and stubborn, in the back of my mind.
We hugged goodbye by her car, promising to make plans soon. Brooks let me use his one of his cars and the drive back to the house was quiet, the low hum of traffic mixing with whatever playlist I had on shuffle.
When I got back just before noon, Brooks wasn't home. Monte's car was gone, the house quiet except for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. I kicked off my heels, took a long, hot shower, and changed into something comfortable — a sweater and shorts.
The rest of the afternoon slipped by in fragments.
I curled up in bed with my laptop, answered a few overdue emails, and let myself get pulled into an hour-long rabbit hole of salon suite listings I'd already seen twice.
I called Aunt Lena to check in, let her fill me in on neighborhood gossip, then half-watched a movie upstairs in bed I'd seen so many times I could recite the lines without looking at the screen.
At some point, I must've dozed off.
The sound of the front door opening woke me. Heavy footsteps crossed the entryway, the low rumble of Brooks's voice following a beat later. I padded over to the banister, staying out of sight.
"...it's not the time to bring Margot into this," he was saying, his tone clipped in that way it got when he was keeping himself in check.
I sank onto the top step, leaning against the wall, heart picking up without my permission.
Pause.
"We've talked about this, Dad. Marriage isn't—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying I'm not interested in that conversation right now."
Another pause.
"Because I'm with someone," he said finally, voice lower. "And it's serious."
The reply was muffled, but I could hear the weight in it, pressing against him even through the distance.
Brooks's voice sharpened. "No. I'm not bringing her into this just so you can compare them. That's not happening."
The word compare clung to me like static.
He started pacing — I could hear the uneven rhythm of his steps. "You keep saying Margot like she's the only person who could..." He trailed off. "I don't care what the press thinks. Or what the donors think."
Silence, then a laugh with no real humor in it. "Dad, I'm not marrying someone because it looks good in a headline."
Another pause, quieter this time. "I'll handle it. Just... stop bringing her up."
When I heard the scrape of his chair, I slipped down the stairs, pretending I'd just walked in from another room. By the time he stepped into the hall, sleeves pushed up and hair mussed like he'd been dragging his hands through it, I was leaning against the kitchen counter with my phone in hand.
"Hey," he said, like nothing was off. "How was brunch?"
"Good." I set my phone down, watching him cross the room. "Who were you talking to?"
He paused just a second too long. "My dad."
"About Margot?" I asked, keeping my tone even.
That froze him. The smallest shift in his expression — surprise first, then guardedness. "You were listening?"
"I was walking in," I said. "Hard not to hear when someone says my boyfriend's PR girlfriends name and the word 'marriage' in the same sentence."
He exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was deciding whether to be annoyed or amused. "It's nothing for you to worry about."
"That's easy for you to say."
He stepped closer, hands finding my waist. "Amira, come on. It's not worth getting upset over. My dad brings her up every time we talk — it's his thing, not mine. His firm is handling the PR stuff between us. I mean her dad is his right hand man."
I searched his face, looking for the part of him that believed his own reassurance. But there was something else in his eyes — something distant, calculating.
Before I could push further, he kissed me. Soft at first, like he could change the subject with his mouth. His hands slid lower, tugging me closer.
Normally, that would've worked. Normally, I'd melt into him without a second thought. But today, my body didn't match my mind. I kissed him back out of muscle memory, but the warmth didn't come.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. "What?"
"Nothing," I murmured, but even I didn't sound convincing.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, guiding us toward the couch. His touch was familiar, but my chest felt tight.
We sank down together, his body angling over mine, his mouth moving like he had time to burn.
One hand slipped beneath my sweater, palm flattening against my stomach, the heat of it spreading out in slow circles.
My skin reacted out of habit—goosebumps rising under his fingertips—but the spark didn't reach anywhere deeper.
"You're tense," he murmured, almost like an observation to himself. His thumb traced idle lines at my hip, the way he does when he's trying to keep me anchored.
I gave a half-smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Something like that."
He leaned in again, lips brushing my jaw, then my neck. "Let me help with that."
I let my head tilt because refusing would've felt like picking a fight. His kisses grew more insistent, his hands more certain, guiding me back against the cushions. The couch shifted under our weight, creaking in familiar protest.
But under it all, my mind was noisy. Margot's name still sat like a splinter under my skin. The word marriage looped in my head, paired with the sound of his father's voice—firm, deliberate.
I closed my eyes, tried to breathe into the moment, tried to focus on the man in front of me and not the shadows hanging just over his shoulder. But every touch felt a second removed, like I was watching us from across the room.
"Amira," he said against my collarbone, voice low, coaxing. "Look at me."
I opened my eyes and did. He looked beautiful, flushed with that quiet intensity he gets when he's all in. And I hated that my first thought wasn't desire—it was guilt. Guilt for not being where he was, for letting my body answer him when my mind was elsewhere.
He searched my face, maybe sensing it. "Still with me?"
I hesitated a beat too long. "Yeah."
But it was the kind of yeah that sounded like no.
He slowed, the air between us shifting. His hand stayed warm against my side, but he wasn't pushing anymore. The silence that opened up between us wasn't awkward—it was heavier than that. It felt like both of us knew exactly what wasn't being said.
He brushed his knuckles along my jaw, searching my face like he could coax me back into whatever rhythm we'd just lost. "You're quiet."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You keep saying that." His mouth twitched into the smallest smile, but his eyes stayed sharp. "You don't sound it."