12.0
The line rang longer than it should have. When it clicked, I didn't lead with a question. Just her name.
"Amira."
Silence stretched. Not long, but long enough for me to picture her frowning at the screen, expecting someone else.
Her voice finally came, careful. "...Brooks?"
I let the pause hang before answering, low. "Yeah."
That was it. No rush to explain, no stammer. Just my name, her name, the space between.
She didn't fill it for me. She never did.
"Why are you calling me?"
I let the question sit. The bourbon made me too slow, or maybe too stubborn, to answer right away. "Felt like I should."
Her breath shifted, sharp. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got tonight." My voice sounded even enough, but I could hear the drag in it, the kind of weight she'd catch before anyone else.
A pause. Then, "Are you drinking?"
I shut my eyes. "No."
That was the first crack. Not the words—plenty of men drank. It was the way I said it. The honesty too bare, no polish on it.
She sighed, quiet but unmistakable. Not pity. Just distance.
"What do you want, Brooks?"
I swallowed, felt it burn all the way down. My hand flexed on the glass I hadn't set down. "To hear your voice."
She didn't answer. And maybe that was the worst part—how silence from her could gut me more than any accusation.
"I know you don't want to hear me say that," I swished the brown liquid around in the glass. "I'm tired of wanting that."
She didn't say anything and the bourbon did nothing but give me more liquid courage.
I tipped the glass back, swallowed, then set it down harder than I meant to. "That guy. Kian, or whatever his name is. Are you seeing him?"
Her breath caught, then steadied. "Why do you need to know that?"
"Just answer. Yes or no."
A pause that stretched too long. Then, steady as a blade—
"I am."
For some reason I laughed, but it wasn't joy. It was jagged, broken. The sound of someone confirming every suspicion he swore he wouldn't voice.
"I figured," I said, though it came out too thin, too gutted. "Are things serious?"
"Brooks," she sighed. "You're drunk. You should go to bed. You're gonna regret this in the morning."
Her calmness cut worse than anything else.
"I regret everything except you," I said, slower now, the words thick. "That's the problem."
Silence.
The bourbon sat in my hand like it had all the answers I never got. I stared at the glass, then set it down, my throat raw.
"If you hadn't left that night... do you think we'd still be us?"
I could hear her breathing. Careful. Afraid to give me what I wanted but too honest to lie.
"Does it matter what I think? That was five years ago."
Her words settled between us, calm but heavy.
I pressed my palm over my eyes. "Five years," I repeated, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. "And I'm still sitting here chasing a ghost. Chasing a feeling I should've outgrown by now."
I gave a breath that sounded too much like a laugh. "Pitiful, right? A grown man still wanting what he lost."
She didn't rush to agree. Didn't soften either. Just let me sit in it.
"Brooks..." Quiet, careful. Not pity. Not judgment. Just her.
And maybe that was worse.
I leaned forward, fingers tightening around the dead weight of the glass. "But I can't replicate it, Amira. I've tried. I can't replace you. Five years, and it's still you."
Silence stretched again. I almost hung up before I could make it worse.
Instead, the words left me, low and unsteady "Let me see you. Just once. That's all I'm asking."
Her sigh traveled through the line, softer than her words. "Brooks... no. It wouldn't be a good idea."
I shut my eyes, let the word dig in. No. Simple, final. But it didn't stop the pulse in my chest from kicking harder. My fingers drummed the glass once, twice, before I set it down too sharp on the counter.
"You don't get it," I said, voice low, fraying at the edges. "I've gone years trying to kill this, Amira. Years. And I can't. I'm still right here."
"Brooks—"
"Don't tell me no like that's supposed to mean I move on. Like I haven't tried. You think I want to be this man? Calling you after five years, drunk and begging? I hate it. But I'd hate more to let this line go dead without trying."
The silence on her end told me she wasn't hanging up. She was listening. Always listening.
"Just one night," I said. "One night to look at you and know you're real, not something I dreamed up."
"Brooks..." Her voice wavered, caught between patience and finality. "No. It's not a good idea."
"Then let me come over," I pushed, reckless now. "Tell me where you are. I'll drive."
"You're drunk you're not driving anywhere."
"I'll uber."
Silence.
"Amira?"
She exhaled slow, like she was counting to ten. "You can't. Not tonight."
"Why not? What, he lives with you?"
"No," she snapped back, a little too quick. Then softer, "It's not that. It's just... it's not a good idea."
The plea in her tone nearly undid me.
She hesitated. I could hear it — that little pause where she let herself imagine it.
"...I'll see if I can meet you this weekend."
I sat forward, clutching the phone like it was air. "This weekend?" I laughed, short and sharp. "Amira, that's too long. Tomorrow. Just tomorrow."
The quiet stretched until her sigh broke it in two. "What am I thinking?" she whispered, almost to herself. Then louder, steadier "No. We shouldn't be seeing each other, Brooks. We're not good for each other."
My chest tightened, because she said it like she believed it. Like she was already bracing herself to hang up.
"Amira, you don't get it. You're the only thing that's ever been good for me."
"That's not true." Her voice sharpened, though she didn't raise it. "You've got a family. A career. A wife, Brooks. You have plenty."
I laughed under my breath, bitter. "All of that, and I'm still calling you. What does that tell you?"
"That you're drunk," she said flatly.
"That I'm lost without you."
She went quiet, and I thought maybe I'd broken through. But then: "We're not good for each other. We never were. You're holding on to something that only broke us both."
"Or maybe you're too scared to admit it was the only thing real," I shot back, heat in my chest.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not scared. I'm realistic."
"If it has to come to this," I said, voice low, "I'll find a way to see you."
"Brooks—" she began.
"Listen." I rushed, trying to button the edge of it. "Not like some—like a stalker.
"That still sounds like stalking."
"Call it what you want."
She exhaled, a small sound that might have been a laugh. "I'll sleep on it," she repeated, firmer this time. "But I'm not promising anything."
"Nothing more than that," I said. "Sleep on it. That's plenty."
"Goodnight, Brooks," she said.
"Goodnight, Amira."
We said it like people who'd rehearsed better endings and failed. The line went dead and I sat there with the ache and a tiny ember of something that wasn't grief — maybe hope, maybe just the spec of mercy she'd given me. Either way, it was enough to make me pour another drink and wait for morning.
The sun was up before I ever closed my eyes. By the time I finally admitted sleep wasn't coming, the sky outside my window was washed gray, the kind of color that made everything inside me feel heavier.
I'd promised Amira I'd let her "sleep on it," but I didn't. I stayed wired, replaying every word, every pause, the way she almost said yes before she told me no.
My temples throbbed. I reached for the small orange bottle on the nightstand, shook out two pills, swallowed them dry. The bitter chalk clung to my tongue, but within minutes the edge dulled, the fog clearing just enough to feel functional. Energy in a capsule — better than nothing.
I dragged myself upstairs, towel slung over my shoulder. The sound of water running hit first, then the faint thud of drawers opening and closing. She was already up.
Margot stood in front of the mirror, hair knotted high, leggings seamless against her legs, sports bra sharp white against her skin. She was tying her shoelaces, jaw tight like she was rehearsing a speech.
She caught my reflection in the mirror. "You're up early."
I didn't answer. Just dropped the towel on the counter and reached for the faucet.
"I've got barre at eight," she said, tying her shoes with crisp, perfect knots. "Figured I'd get a head start."
She was talking to fill the silence. To patch over what couldn't be patched. I turned the water hotter, steam fogging the glass.
"Brooks," she tried again, softer this time. "About last night—it was just the heat of the moment. We both said things we didn't mean."
Her words crawled under my skin because I meant every single word I said.
I stepped under the spray, letting it drown her out.
"Brooks," she pressed, voice rising over the water. "Can we please just talk?"
The disdain sat heavy in my chest. Talk. That was all she ever wanted—surface-level smoothing, rehearsed apologies. She wanted me to forgive what I couldn't forget, to pretend there wasn't a canyon between us.
I closed my eyes, let the water hit harder, and stayed silent.
"I said it was the heat of the moment," she went on, louder now. "Why do you have to punish me by shutting down? You act like you're perfect—like you don't say things you regret."
I laughed, short and bitter, barely audible over the spray. "Trust me, I regret plenty."
The door creaked open, cool air slipping in. She stood there, arms folded, jaw set.
"Then say that to me, not to the shower wall. You think ignoring me makes you look strong? It just makes you look weak. I'm trying to go back to the real us."
I shoved the glass aside, water dripping from my hair.
"For fuck's sake, Margot. Would it kill you to consider that maybe I don't want this conversation at eight in the morning? There is no real us. This is all for show. You want me to act like last night was heat of the moment, but I meant every word—and I know you did too."