Thirty-Five.2 （Bonus）
The phone buzzed. Dad.
I let it ring twice, then answered. "Yeah."
"No greeting?" he said lightly. "Good job on the radio hit. Numbers look strong with suburban women twenty-five to forty-nine. We can grow that."
I rubbed at my temple. "We already won, Dad."
"That's why we you need to hold on to momentum. You want committee leverage next session, you don't get sloppy now."
There it was—the shift. "What do you want?"
"What we've discussed," he said smoothly. "We stay the course with Margot through the spring. Palm Beach in February, Georgetown in March. Those checks keep you comfortable."
"I'm ending it with Margot. We only agreed on until I won the seat in the senate."
Silence, then a laugh without humor. "That's not how this works, son."
"It's not a relationship. It's photo lines and the occasional gala."
"And in exchange you get the Wellesley machine at your back. Bundlers, editorial boards, voters who like a tidy box. We didn't invent this—we're living in it."
"I'm in a relationship. A real one. And it's serious."
He let that hang. "I don't doubt your... attachment," he said, as if it were a passing crush.
"But your life stopped being just yours when you took the oath. You carry my name, your grandfather's name. We built something that took decades to earn, and it can be gone in one cycle if you don't protect it."
"Discipline isn't lying."
"It's strategy. Parade her into the press now and they'll feast. Keep her private and I can kill half the gossip from your little scandal before it starts."
"She's not a scandal."
"I didn't say she was, but Margot comes with a turnkey story that calms donors and buys you room to legislate. We're asking for time, not a wedding."
"You brought up marriage," I said.
"I said trajectory. In two or so years, if you still feel the way you do, the field will be different. You'll have your name built on more than a headline. You can afford a mess then."
"You're asking me to extend this relationship for two or so years?"
"No one's asking you to fall in love with Margot. Just don't light a match to the scaffolding we built because you want applause for this phase you're going through."
"She's not a phase, Dad."
"Good," he said. "Then treat her like someone you want to keep safe. This isn't about hiding her—it's about keeping her from becoming column fodder. You think the press won't find every little thing about her? They'll dig until she's a headline, and then they'll hang you both with it."
"Protecting her doesn't look like pretending with someone else."
"You're not pretending. You're attending. You show up, smile, post twice a month, cut a ribbon. It's blocking and tackling."
"And what do I tell Margot?"
"That you're focused on the work. Her father speaks that language too."
There it was—the leverage.
"If I pull out now, are you saying Wellesley threatens my committee slot?"
"I'm saying relationships are fragile. You don't show you can be managed, they won't spend to keep you comfortable. You think you winning was a gift or luck? It was a promise—one I vouched for you to keep. Don't make me regret it."
I stared at the framed photo of me and Mom at a Little League field. It didn't help.
"I'm ending it with Margot. Cleanly. Respectfully. This quarter."
"After Palm Beach," he countered. "Give people a picture to settle their nerves, then we reassess."
"You don't even hear yourself."
"I hear the clock. Dinner Sunday. She'll be there. Your mother's already arranged her seating. Don't make me explain your absence."
The line went dead.
The room went still. I set the phone down, loosened my tie, and told myself I wouldn't bring any of that upstairs. Then I caught the faintest shift of movement where the stairs began, and knew the conversation I'd been avoiding was already waiting in the next room.
I set the phone down carefully. Loosened my tie. Unbuttoned my cuffs. I told myself I wouldn't bring any of that upstairs. I told myself I could be the version of me she deserved tonight—quiet, easy, all-in.
When I stepped into the hall, my sleeves were shoved up, my hair still a mess from dragging my hands through it. I'd told myself I'd leave the call in the office, but the look on her face when I spotted her leaning against the kitchen counter told me that was a fantasy.
"Hey," I said, keeping my tone even. "How was brunch?"
"Good." She set her phone down, eyes on me like she was reading every inch of my expression. "Who were you talking to?"
I hesitated — a second too long. "My dad."
"About Margot?" she asked, voice level but deliberate.
That stopped me cold. Surprise flickered first, then I tightened it away. "You were listening?"
"I was walking in," she said. "Hard not to hear when someone says my boyfriend's PR girlfriend's name and the word 'marriage' in the same sentence."
I let out a breath, the corner of my mouth twitching — not from amusement, but from the choice between irritation and honesty. "It's nothing for you to worry about."
"That's easy for you to say."
I closed the distance between us, my hands settling at her 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."
She studied me, and I knew she could see the calculation I was trying to bury. I wanted to tell her the whole conversation, every manipulative angle he'd thrown at me, but part of me thought shielding her from it was the only way to keep her from questioning whether I could fight him and win.
So instead I kissed her. Soft at first, just enough to try and shift the air between us. Her body was warm against mine, familiar in a way that still made my chest tighten.
Usually, that was enough to erase whatever weight I came home with. But this time, I could feel her hesitation — the way she kissed me back like it was habit, not instinct.
I pulled back, searching her face. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, though her voice didn't sell it.
I kissed her again, deeper, my hands sliding lower, tugging her closer like proximity alone could fix what words couldn't.
We sank down together, my body braced over hers, my mouth moving slow, like I had all the time in the world. My hand slipped under her sweater, fingers splaying against the soft warmth of her stomach. She reacted—goosebumps rising—but there was something missing in the way her body answered me.
"You're tense," I murmured, half to myself. My thumb traced slow lines at her hip, the way I do when I want to keep her with me, present.
She gave me a half-smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Something like that."
I kissed her jaw, then her neck, letting my lips linger. "Let me help with that."
Her head tilted, letting me in, but it didn't feel like surrender—it felt like permission. Like she was letting me go through the motions. I guided her gently back against the cushions, the couch giving its familiar protest.
I tried to focus on the sound of her breathing, the way her hair brushed my cheek, but there was a gap between us I couldn't close.
Margot's name had been in the air less than an hour ago, and I'd give anything to take it back, to erase it from her mind.
But my father's voice still echoed in mine, and I hated that his words might have reached her before I could.
"Amira," I said against her collarbone, my voice low, coaxing. "Look at me."
She did, and I saw it—she was here, but not really.
I wanted to say I loved her, that nothing in the world felt like she did, that the thought of losing her made my chest ache.
But I'd been taught that too much honesty is weakness, and weakness gets used against you. So instead I asked, "Still with me?"
"Yeah."
It was the kind of yeah that wasn't.
I slowed, keeping my hand warm against her side. I didn't want to push if she didn't want this. But God, I needed her to want this. I needed that connection, because it was the only way I knew to bring her back to me.
"You're quiet," I said, searching her face.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." I tried to smile, to make it light, but my eyes stayed locked on hers. "You don't sound it."
She looked down, and I followed her gaze to the open button at my collar. Normally she'd touch me there, trace the line of my skin, but tonight she didn't move. That absence landed heavier than I wanted to admit.
I kissed her again, slower this time, my palm sliding higher beneath her sweater until my fingertips brushed the lace of her bra. My other hand cradled her cheek, trying to ground her in me, in us. I wanted her to feel what I felt—that she was mine in a way no one else ever had been.
But every time I felt her start to respond, it slipped away, like trying to hold onto water.
I pressed her gently into the couch, settling my weight between her knees.
Kissed down her neck. Murmured her name like it was the answer to a question I couldn't ask out loud.
My hand found her thigh, pushed her skirt higher, my knee nudging between hers, searching for that point where she'd meet me halfway.
Her breathing picked up, but not the way I wanted it to. I could feel it—how much of her was somewhere else.
I kissed her harder, trying to pull her with me. For a moment I thought I had her—until I pulled back and saw it in her eyes.
"You're not here," I said quietly.
"I'm here."
"Not really." It came out softer than I intended, but the weight of it was there.
We stayed like that, neither moving. The clock ticked in the kitchen. She let her hands fall away, and I knew I'd lost the moment.
I eased back, sat beside her, close but not touching. "If you don't want to—"
"It's not that," she cut in. "I just—" She shook her head. "I don't know."
I didn't push. I just stayed there with her, listening to her breathe, wanting to tell her she never had to earn my love, that she wasn't some performance I needed her to give.