forty-three #2
"Do you ever think about what would've happened if you'd picked me in public?" The question leaves a ringing after it, like I said it into a church.
"All the time," he says. No hesitation. "I make up a thousand different timelines. Every one of them starts the same: I tell the truth and I deal with it."
"You didn't," I say, and it lands clean as glass.
"I didn't," he echoes. "And I pay for that every day in ways only I can see."
"Then why not do it now?" I ask, surprised at myself. "Why not call it off?"
He lets out a rough sound. "Because I'm not twenty-seven in a vacuum anymore. I didn't just climb into a treehouse and pull the ladder up behind me. There are donors, and staff, and legislative deals that keep lights on in places you don't see. And there's my father. You know what he is."
"I do," I say.
"And there's the part where I made promises I don't get to unmake without destroying other people's lives along the way." He's not asking for credit; I can hear it. "It's a story where I'm the villain in a different way. I'm tired of being the villain, Amira."
"So you accept," I say.
"So I accept," he repeats softly. "And some nights I lie about what that feels like."
The baby monitor throws a soft wash of sound—Alina shifting, a sigh. I step closer to the glass without thinking, like I can get between the phone and her sleep.
He hears me move. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
"You've always been bad at lying when you're deflecting," he says, gentle. "Your voice goes a little higher."
"Stop knowing me," I say, and my throat burns.
He is quiet, like he's laying something down. "I never stopped."
We don't breathe for a few seconds. Then I do the only thing that buys me room. "It's late."
"Yeah."
"Tomorrow's the big day," I say, because I can't help it.
He makes that dry not-laugh again. "If that's what you want to call it."
"Brooks—"
"Can I ask you one thing before we hang up?" His voice is careful.
"No guarantees."
"Do you ever think about... what we would've been like if we'd made it?" He doesn't shove the words. He sets them down and backs up.
Sometimes I think about what life might've been like with him—me, him, and Alina as a family.
Us doing normal, stupid things—matching pajamas at Christmas, arguing over who's turn it is to get up in the middle of the night to check on her, him insisting on putting together every toy together.
Then other times I think about the delivery room. How I was alone.
How I stared at a ceiling tile while they told me to push, and I wondered what he would've been like if he'd been there—if he would've held my hand, cursed under his breath when I squeezed too hard, kissed my forehead when she cried for the first time.
I picture him at doctor visits, serious and over-prepared, asking questions I didn't know to ask. I think of him being overprotective in all the ways that would've made me roll my eyes—but underneath it, I know, he would've been the best dad.
And then I remind myself—it's a picture I'll never know if it's real.
"Sometimes," I say. My voice catches, traitor. "But it's better this way."
He hears the catch. I know he does. He doesn't push into it. He just breathes slow, like he's memorizing the sound.
"Are you safe?" he asks after a long minute.
"Yes."
"Do you have people?"
"I do," I say. "More than I thought."
He takes that in. "Good."
I pull the balcony door open a few inches, let cooler air wash my shins. "We should hang up."
"I know."
"This can't happen again."
"It won't," he says, and I believe him again, and I hate that too.
The quiet goes soft. I hear him shift, maybe against a hotel headboard, maybe against a window looking out at a city that isn't mine. I imagine him rubbing a thumb over the edge of his phone the way he used to do with his cufflinks when he was thinking too hard.
"I'm sorry," he says one more time, like a fact, not a plea. "For all of it."
"I know," I answer, and I mean that too.
"Amira—"
"Don't," I say, because I can feel him reaching for a place we don't get to go.
He stops. Then, like he's setting the last thing he owns on a table between us: "Tomorrow they'll all think I got what I wanted. They'll be wrong. You were it. You always were."
I close my eyes. The only word I have left is small and final. "Goodbye, Brooks."
He doesn't say goodnight. He says the thing that will live in my chest whether I let it or not. "I don't know if I'll ever stop loving you."
I let the silence swallow it. Then I end the call.
The apartment feels different when I step back inside—emptier, somehow lighter. I set the phone beside the closed invitation. The baby monitor glows steady on the dresser.
Alina sighs in her sleep, a soft, even sound.
I turn off the balcony light, wash my hands until the faint smell of smoke is gone, and slide into bed beside the monitor. I lie on my side facing it, watching the little green line pulse.
Tomorrow will come either way.
I pull the blanket to my chin and close my eyes.
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Honestly writing this last chapter made me emotional LMAO. I was not expecting that.
Thank you so much for reading and loving His Secret. Amira, Brooks, and every single character in this book mean so much to me, and I'm beyond grateful you've connected with them too.
But luckily this isn't the end of their story
HER SECRET book 2 is out now!
I have a lot in store for this one and I think it's gonna be pretty great. Can't wait for you all to read!