thirty-eight #2
"You'll like this place," Brooks said as he tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. His voice was smooth, almost rehearsed. "It's private. You'll feel comfortable there."
Comfortable. The word sat wrong in my chest.
I nodded anyway. "Okay."
He reached over, brushed his thumb across my knuckles like he was trying to tether me.
His hand was warm, steady. The kind of touch that used to mean everything.
Tonight, it felt like a script he was following.
A gesture meant to remind me I was still his—even if he didn't realize how much I'd stopped feeling like I belonged to him.
The car pulled up to a quiet block, far from the loud heart of Philadelphia's nightlife. No flashing lights. No crowded sidewalks. Just one slim building with dark glass windows and a brass plaque by the door. Monte parked and slipped out before either of us moved, circling around to open my door.
Inside, the restaurant was nearly silent. Candles glowed low on every table. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and rosemary. It should've been romantic. Should've felt special.
But the room was empty.
Every single table sat bare, linens pressed tight, chairs tucked in with military precision. Only one table near the back was set for two—wine already breathing, silver polished, roses arranged just so.
Brooks rested his hand lightly at the small of my back as he guided me forward. "I thought you'd appreciate the privacy."
I let out a soft laugh, brittle at the edges. "You bought out the whole place?"
"Of course." He smiled like it was obvious. Like it wasn't strange to eat in a restaurant where the hum of other people had been scrubbed out, leaving nothing but our own footsteps echoing on hardwood.
Months ago, I would've been dazzled. Would've thought it was decadent, surreal, the kind of thing only men in movies did. But now, all I could think about was how quiet it felt. How staged. How every detail was carefully placed to remind me of the gap between his world and mine.
We sat. A waiter appeared instantly, pouring water, reciting specials, vanishing again like a ghost trained to know when to disappear.
I picked up the menu, though my appetite had already dissolved. Brooks watched me, his eyes soft, patient.
"You're quiet again," he said.
I kept my gaze fixed on the list of entrées. "I'm just tired."
He tilted his head, unconvinced. "From what?"
"From everything."
"Amira..." His voice softened, but there was that edge in it—the politician's edge. The need to fix, to control, to package feelings into neat boxes. "I'm trying here. I thought—this dinner, a little surprise—maybe it'd bring us back."
I finally looked at him. "Bring us back where?"
His brow furrowed. "To us."
The words landed heavy, because the us he was talking about felt like a ghost. Something I remembered in flashes but couldn't touch anymore.
I set the menu down. "We haven't really talked since Mykonos."
He leaned back, sighing, like he'd been waiting for this. "That's not true."
"Yes, it is. We barely spoke on the plane. We didn't speak until the next morning."
My voice was steady, but the memories pressed sharp against my ribs.
The silence between us. The way I'd stared out the window while he scrolled through his phone.
"And since then, it's like we're just... here. In the same house. Playing roles."
"Roles?" He frowned. "Amira, come on."
"I feel like I'm playing house with you."
The words came out before I could stop them. Honest. Naked. They sat between us like something fragile but too sharp to pick up.
Brooks's jaw tightened. He didn't answer right away, just let the waiter glide in with bread and olive oil, set it down, and vanish again. When the door closed behind him, Brooks finally spoke.
"You think this is pretend?" His voice was low. Controlled.
"I think it doesn't feel real anymore."
Brooks stared at me a long beat, then a server slid through the silence with two entrées balanced on his arm, candles bowing in his wake. We both thanked him too brightly. When the door sighed shut again, the quiet swelled back.
We ate because there was nothing else to do. I cut the fish into neat squares and moved them around my plate. He actually tried a few bites, like chewing might fix the conversation we couldn't seem to have.
"This Pinot's lighter than I expected," he said finally, voice careful, neutral. "You might like it."
I took a sip because he'd offered. "It's fine."
He nodded, glanced down. His thumb kept running along the seam of his napkin, folding, unfolding. The way he did when he was trying not to push too hard.
"I don't want to fight with you," he said quietly.
"I don't either."
"Then help me," he said, a little rougher. "Tell me how to make this not feel like—" He shook his head once, searching. "Like I'm failing you."
"You're not failing me," I said. "You're... keeping me separate."
I watched the candle warp in the curve of his glass.
"I know I agreed to that at the beginning. I meant it when I said I could handle it. But I don't want to anymore. We've been together more than a year, and I don't want to be invisible in your life."
He didn't argue. His jaw worked, and he sat back, eyes on the table, like he was weighing every word before he let it out.
"Amira," he said finally, careful, "you know what that would mean. I'm not talking about bad tweets. I'm talking about getting dragged on morning TV. I'm talking about donors deciding I'm unstable because I 'can't manage scandals.'" He looked up.
There was nothing hard in his face—only a tired kind of worry.
"I don't want the first time your name trends to be because of me."
"Maybe I should get to choose whether I'm strong enough for that," I said.
He flinched, like I'd grazed bone. "You might be, but theres a lot more at stake here just for us to get the opportunity to walk down times square holding hands."
We went quiet again, fork against porcelain, glass to lips. The kind of small, normal sounds that, tonight, felt like lies.
When the plates were cleared, he tried once more, but I was out of conversation to give him.
We skipped dessert. He paid for the whole empty room with a flick of his pen, a smile that never reached his eyes. The manager thanked him like he was royalty and a patron saint.
Monte had the car at the curb before we stepped outside. The street was quiet, that soft city hush that only shows up on a Monday. When the back door closed and the soundproofing wrapped around us, it felt like being sealed into a jar.
He watched the lights wash across my face and I watched the river turn to shadow under the bridge.
Halfway across, he slid his hand over, palm up on the leather between us. An invitation. The part of me that would always be weak for him wanted to take it. The part of me that had swallowed too much silence didn't move.
He pulled his hand back gently, folded it into the other.
"I hate this," he said, not looking at me.
"What?"
"This feeling like I'm choosing between my job and you every time I open my mouth." He glanced over, a quick cut of eyes. "Even when I'm with you, it's like I'm counting exits."
The admission cracked something in me I'd been holding together with tape. "I don't know what to tell you Brooks," I said, tired.
He didn't argue. He didn't promise. The quiet swallowed it.
We turned into our neighborhood. The hedges and the neat lawn ornaments and the house that looked like it belonged to someone steadier than me. Monte killed the engine. Brooks thanked him, soft, automatic, and we walked inside.
The purse bag was still on the kitchen counter, green leather peeking like an eye. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and the faintest ghost of his cologne. Everything else smelled like nothing.
He loosened his tie, set his wallet on the island. "Do you want tea?"
"No." I wrapped my arms around myself. "I want to understand what we are."
He stilled. The tie hung open on his chest; he didn't reach for it.
"I told you what this was," he said, quiet, not unkind. "From the beginning."
"And I told you I could handle it," I said. "From the beginning." I swallowed. "I can't anymore."
He leaned both hands on the counter, head dropping for a moment. When he lifted it again, his eyes looked older. "I hear you."
"Do you?" I asked, because the question kept splitting inside me like a cell. "Because the math feels the same. Either I stay and I'm hidden, or I leave and I disappear a different way."
Brooks's eyes flickered, and for once, he didn't rush to answer. He just leaned against the counter, tie loose, sleeves rolled, looking tired in a way I hadn't seen before.
"I won," he said finally. "You know that. Pennsylvania's mine for the next six years."
"I know."
"But that doesn't mean I'm free," he went on, quieter now. "If anything, it's worse. Every move I make has to run through another filter—my staff, the press, my father. He built this path for me, Amira. I can't just wander off it because—" He stopped, catching himself.
"Because of me," I finished for him.
He sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "Because of us."