forty-three
"Hello?"
Silence at first. Not dead air—breathing. A low, steady inhale on the other end.
"Amira."
Just my name. Low. Unmistakable.
I grip the balcony railing with my free hand, knuckles whitening. The night air goes thin.
"...How'd you get this number?"
"Doesn't matter." His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher, like something sanded down to what's true. "I'm sorry to call like this. I just... needed to hear your voice."
I almost hang up. Almost. My body won't move.
"Why?" I ask finally, hating how small it sounds.
A pause. Then, quieter: "Because tomorrow—everything changes."
My stomach turns. Through the sliding door I can see the soft green glow of the baby monitor on my dresser. "Guess congratulations are in order."
He exhales a not-laugh. "Yeah. Sure. If that's what you want to call it."
It knocks me off balance enough to keep me on the line. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"What do you think it means?" he says, voice scraping at the edges. "I'm getting married in twelve hours, and I'm on the phone with you instead of sleeping. Take a guess."
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, hard. "You shouldn't be calling me."
"I know."
Silence stretches, heavy and uneven. He reels himself back in; I can hear it in the way his breathing evens.
I lean against the glass door, keep my voice flat. "I got your invitation."
A beat. "My what?"
"Your wedding invitation," I say, sharper than I intend. "Found it in my mailbox."
Another beat of silence—then a dry, disbelieving sound. "You think I sent you that?"
My fingers tighten. "...Didn't you?"
"Why would I?" The roughness drops lower. "Amira, I've wanted to see you for three years. You think the first time I'd want that is there?"
Something in me goes still. "...So you didn't send it."
"No." He chooses each word. "I didn't. But you got one?"
"Yes."
He lets out a humorless breath. "Then I guess somebody wanted to remind you how far I am from what I really wanted."
"Why are you calling me, Brooks?"
He doesn't rush. When he speaks again, the polish is gone; it's raw.
"Because I shouldn't have your number and I do. Because there are a few hours left where I can say the truth without it turning into something else. And because if I go through tomorrow without hearing you once, I don't know if I'll—" He stops. "I don't know."
"How did you get my number?" It comes out small and mean.
"A favor," he says. Nothing else. "I won't drag them into it. And I won't use it again. I swear."
I believe him. I hate that I believe him.
Inside, the apartment hums with the kind of quiet that makes every appliance sound like a confession. Outside, the city breathes like it always does—indifferent, steady. I lift the little joint from the ashtray, take a slow pull, watch the tip flare. It tastes like mint and nerves.
"I'm not coming," I say.
"I know." No flinch. "Good."
That stings in a way I didn't expect. "Good?"
"You think I want to look up and see you there while I—" He exhales hard. "No. Not like that. Not with cameras. Not with... them."
"Them," I echo. "Your people."
"My father's people," he says, and the old edge slides in on father, bitter and tired. "Some of mine. A lot of hers."
I let that sit. "I threw the envelope away," I lie. "It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters." He sounds tired in a way that isn't about sleep. "It's a cruel thing to send."
"Maybe it wasn't meant to be."
"Maybe," he allows. "But if it put that look on your face—the one I'm picturing—then it was."
I don't ask what look. He's always known my face too well.
"You sound different," I say without meaning to.
"Older?" The dry humor again, softer around the edges. "More beaten?"
"More... quiet."
"Trying not to perform," he says. "I—" He stops, catches himself. "I don't know how to talk to you anymore without wanting to—"
"Don't," I cut in, quick. "Please don't."
Silence empties out between us. My knuckles go cold around the phone.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
I tap ash into an empty planter, watch it fall. "We don't have to do this."
"Do what?"
"This." I gesture at the air like he can see it. "The late-night honesty. The... last lap."
"I called to tell you I'm sorry," he says finally, words clean. "Not because it fixes anything. Not because I'm asking for anything. I kept thinking about how many times I owed you those words and didn't say them loud enough for them to count."
"For what?" My voice doesn't shake. It should.
"For the restaurant," he says. "For Mykonos. For letting my fear look like contempt. For the way my mother used you like a warning and I didn't stop her hard enough. For every time I called secrecy protection and told myself that was noble."
He swallows; I can hear it. "For making you feel small when all I felt with you was the opposite."
The joint has gone out; I don't know when. I crush the papery end on reflex.
"You didn't just make me feel small," I say. "You made me feel invisible."
"I know," he says, and there's no fight in it. "I'm not arguing."
"And you told me I knew the tradeoff."
He flinches. I hear it in his breath. "I was an ass."
"You were a coward," I say, so quiet I almost don't hear myself.
"I was a coward," he repeats, steady. "Yes."
I press the phone closer to my ear and try not to let relief feel like permission.
"I'm not the same, Amira," he says, and it doesn't land like a line. "That doesn't excuse who I was. I just... every day now, everything looks like consequence. There's a difference between sacrificing and abandoning. I didn't understand that until you left."
I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the door. The city blurs into softer shapes. "Why call me today? Why not last week? Last month? Three years ago."
He almost laughs, and it breaks. "Because today I can say the truth and it's just a phone call. Tomorrow if I say it, it's a scandal. And I wanted at least one thing between us that didn't turn into content."
I don't trust my voice, so I say nothing.
He breathes once, steadying. "Are you... happy?" he asks, like he's bracing.
I stare at the faint red smear the ember left on the railing. "Some days."
"And the other days?"
"I survive them," I say. "Like everyone else."
He listens. I can feel it through the line, that old focused quiet.
"You deserve more than surviving," he says.
"You used to say that a lot," I toss back.
He absorbs it. "I know."
We sit in it. Not awkward. Just full.
"What do you want from me, Brooks?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says, and I can tell he hears how thin that sounds. "I don't want anything from you. I wanted to tell you I loved you in real life, out loud, and I broke it. And I'm sorry."
The apology tucks under my ribs. It doesn't fix anything; it doesn't have to.
"You excited?" I ask suddenly, because some petty part of me wants to see if he still lies easily.
"For what?"
I almost laugh; it comes out flat. "Your wedding."
A low sound, like I've set a weight between us. "That's the last thing I want to talk about. With you. With anyone, if we're being real."
"That's surprising."
"Why?"
"Because it's what you wanted," I say. "It's what you picked."
He's quiet long enough that I think he hung up. Then: "No. It's what I accepted." His voice goes lower again. "Not the same thing."
Something tugs in my chest. I shove it down. "So why call me? To make sure I knew you didn't want it?"
"No." His breath hitches, then steadies. "I called because I wanted to know why you left that night."
My throat closes. "You really don't know?"
"I have theories," he admits. "I've spent three years running every version of it. I think I deserve to hear your version once. Just once."
Down on the street, a couple passes with a dog, laughing softly, like life isn't breaking apart in someone's ear three floors up.
"I left," I say slowly, "because staying felt like erasing myself. Every day, a little more. Like I was disappearing into what you needed me to be for everyone else. And I didn't want to hate you. I didn't want to wake up and resent you so hard I forgot why I ever loved you."
He breathes in, sharp. Lets it out. "I would've fought for you," he says, softer this time. "I swear to God, I would've—"
"You didn't," I say, no bite. Just fact. "And maybe I should've told you I was leaving. Maybe I owed you that. But the second I realized I was preg—"
I stop so hard my teeth click.
He doesn't pounce. He waits. He's always been good at waiting when it mattered least.
"...the second you realized what?" he asks finally, careful.
"Nothing," I say, too fast. "It doesn't matter."
Silence. Curious. Heavy.
"Amira—"
"I'm not doing this," I whisper. "Not tonight."
"Okay," he says. It sounds like he hates the word. "Okay."
He clears his throat, like he's moving us forward because I won't. "Where are you living now?"
"I'm in Philly still," I say.
"You working?"
"I'm in school." The word feels good in my mouth.
He's quiet. Not judging—just... picturing it, maybe. "You always had a way of making the things you touch look like they belong to you," he says, almost to himself. "The way you used to line up your makeup brushes by height or that face you always make in the mirror when you're done getting ready."
I swallow. "You remember ridiculous things."
"I remember everything," he says simply.
I don't have anything for that. I lean an elbow on the railing, stare at my bare toes. "How's... she?"
There's no point pretending he doesn't know who I mean.
He's silent a long moment. "Polished," he says finally. "Prepared. Good at the rooms that matter to my father." He doesn't dress it up. "We don't see each other much outside of events."
"So you get what you wanted," I say, and it comes out meaner than I intend.
"I got what looks right," he says. "That's not the same."
I rub the heel of my hand over my sternum, like I can push down the ache. "Do you ever—" I stop.
"What?"