16.0
Amira kept pace beside me, sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes taking inventory of everything but me.
I talked anyway—easy, low, pointing out the dog that refused to sit, the couple taking turns pretending they weren't arguing.
Small talk, but I meant it like stitching, something to keep the seams from splitting.
"Is this you narrating the park for me?" she asked finally, mouth bent toward a smile she didn't commit to.
"Just proving I can multitask," I said. "Walk and be aware of my surroundings at the same time, so you won't worry."
"Who said I was worried?"
"Your body did." I glanced down at her.
That earned me a soft exhale. Not a laugh—more like she'd been holding her breath and forgot to. We took the long bend by the chess tables.
"How are your parents?" she asked, casual as a weather check, eyes on the pieces.
I cut her a look. "They're the same as they've always been."
"Which means?"
"Opinionated. Certain." I kept my tone light. "They don't change. They just... rebrand."
"Rebrand," she repeated, like she was testing how it tasted.
"You're quiet," I said.
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
She nudged a pebble with her shoe. "You ever think about kids?" The question came clean, like she'd rehearsed stripping it of emotion.
I didn't answer right away. A jogger passed, the rhythm of her feet scoring the silence. "In general?" I asked.
"In general." She kept her eyes forward.
"Sure," I said. "I think about them." I let a beat stretch. "What kind of answer are you looking for?"
"The true one."
"Those cost extra."
"Brooks."
I sighed, let the performance drop. "I didn't grow up with a healthy playbook," I said. "I mean I'm thirty-five. I don't necessarily see kids on the cards for me. They're adorable I guess. Until they hit like five."
She nodded once, like she agreed and hated that she did.
We hit the far corner of the square and looped back.She stayed silent long enough that I let myself look at her. Not pressing. Just there.
"What about you?" I asked. "Do you think about it?"
She hesitated. "I think about... people who shouldn't have had kids, and people who should've," she said finally. "And how the math never adds up."
"Mm."
"And I wonder," she added, voice thinner now, "what someone like you thinks he'd be like."
"Someone like me?" I pushed the words around, slow. "A politician?"
"A man whose life isn't his own," she said. "Who's been told since he was a teenager what kind of man he's supposed to be."
I almost smiled. "You mean would I be my father to someone smaller than me."
Her jaw moved, once. She didn't answer.
"I'd be present," I said. "I'd show up. I'd tell the truth even when it cost me. I'd be annoying about certain things, sure. I wouldn't be like my dad though."
She blinked like I'd said the last part in another language. Then she looked down, and I knew I'd given more than I planned to. Fine. She asked for the true one.
"You're asking a lot of questions tonight," I said, softer. "Should I be reading into that?"
"Don't," she said, too quick. "I'm just... picking your brain."
I let a low laugh out, not mocking. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
Her head snapped up. "No." It landed too fast to be casual. "No. I'm not."
"Are you implying that you want to have my baby, Amira?"
A small laugh escaped her lips and she nudged me. I swung my arm around her. pulling her into me and falling into step with her.
"I asked about your parents because I wanted to see if anything was different," she said after a block. "If you'd be different than them."
She rolled her lips in, then let them go. "Sometimes I think about how certain things could've gone differently," she said. "And then I get mad at myself for thinking about it at all."
"Welcome to my last five years," I said.
That made her huff out a breath. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make everything sound easier than it is."
"It's not easy," I said. "It's just honest."
We stopped near the edge of the square where the curb dipped.
A rideshare idled on the corner, someone waving to it like the driver owed them a favor.
She pivoted toward me, thumb skimming along the seam of her sleeve, and I recognized the tell—this was the part where she made an exit before she said too much.
"You driving or getting a ride?" I asked.
"Driving."
"You parked close?"
"Close enough."
"Want me to walk you?"
"I'll be fine."
We stood in it, the kind of quiet that used to feel like home. I watched her eyes keep moving—lamps, branches—like she needed every detail for later.
"About the family questions," I said. "If there's something you actually want to know, ask it."
"I did."
"You asked around it." I held her look.
She didn't deny it. She just breathed, slow, the way people do when they've decided not to jump.
"Brooks," she said, softer now. "I'm not trying to pick a fight."
"I didn't come here to fight you."
"What did you come for?"
I could've made a joke. I didn't. "To be where you are."
She absorbed that. I watched it land, watched her try to push it off and fail. She took a half-step back toward the curb, then changed her mind and stayed put.
"You asked me if I was different," I said. "I am. I'm not smarter. Just clearer." I let my voice drop. "And I'm not going to pretend I don't see you, or that I don't want what I want. But I'm not dragging you anywhere you don't want to go."
Her mouth moved like she had three answers and didn't trust any of them. "Okay."
"Okay yes," I said, "or okay you heard me?"
She almost smiled. "Both."
We started walking again, slower now, toward the block where the street cut out to angled parking. She lifted her chin at a dark sedan. "That one."
I nodded. "Text me when you're home."
Her eyes flicked up at that, quick. "I will. You need to go home to sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow."
"I sleep when I can," I said. "You know that."
She unlocked the car. The lights flashed; the interior glowed. For a second it painted her with a cheap kind of halo.
She opened the door, then closed it again without getting in. The neighborhood hissed with traffic two streets over; the lamp above her hummed like it was working harder than it wanted to.
"Late-night walks," she said, like she was filing the words on a shelf. "Late-night calls."
"Seem to be our lane."
"It can't be forever."
"No," I said. "It can't."
We looked at each other in that old, brutal way—like measuring cuts we'd given each other and debating whether to make more. I didn't move closer. Wanting wasn't the point here.
"Go," I said finally, because she needed the out. "Before I start narrating the parking lot."
That made her mouth curve. "God forbid."
She got in. I stepped back, hands in my pockets, feeling the cool bite through the fabric. She started the car, the engine catching like a cleared throat, and for a second we just sat there—her inside, me out—like two people on either side of glass they'd put there themselves.
She pulled away, taillights washing the curb red, then gone. I stood there until the lamp hummed itself into background and the fountain sounded like it always did—like proof the city would go on if I didn't.
Late walks. Late calls. Things that don't photograph well. I started back through the square, hands still in my pockets, and let the night keep what it wanted from me.
The next morning hit clean and bright, all glass and light spilling across the penthouse floor. I was already moving before the sun had climbed high—shirt pressed, shoes lined out, watch face polished like a small mirror. My life ran on polish now.
I stood at the dresser, sliding cufflinks through cotton, the kind my father used to wear when he wanted the cameras to catch the shine. Bryan's team would notice details like that, even if they pretended not to.
The tie didn't sit right. I tried again, slower, staring at myself until the knot looked like it belonged. My reflection was composed enough. Handsome enough. The kind of man people voted for.
Behind me, Jenna's voice carried in from the kitchen. "You've got half an hour before the car comes."
"Plenty of time," I said.
She appeared in the doorway, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other. "You're meeting Bryan's people, not college friends. No improvising."
"I'm aware."
Her look said she wasn't convinced, but she didn't push. She rattled off updates, the kind of numbers that were supposed to make me feel steady. They just bounced off.
I checked my watch again, rolled my shoulders until the jacket sat right. The mirror showed someone ready. Inside, I wasn't sure if I believed it.
Jenna handed me the coffee anyway. "Try to look like you slept."
I smirked, took the cup. "I'm trying hard."
She didn't smile back. "Try to keep it clean tonight. Don't drink too much, don't let Bryan bait you. And keep Margot on your arm long enough for the cameras to notice. Five minutes minimum."
I didn't answer that one. She didn't wait for one either, just clicked back to business.
When she left, the silence folded back in. Heavy, expectant. I stood there another minute, rolling my shoulders until the jacket sat right. Everything about me said steady, sure, polished. The man they needed to see.
The phone buzzed again. I turned it over this time—just a news alert, another headline about someone else's scandal. I dropped it face down again.
The afternoon moved in pieces. A call with my father. Brief. Sharp. He wanted assurance about Bryan. About me. His voice hadn't softened since I was ten years old. "Hold the line," he said, like that was enough of a blessing.
I answered with the same steady tone I'd used for years. "I always do."
Big nights did that, even after all these years. Not because of Bryan. Not because of Margot. Because nights like this were currency—you spent one wrong, it could cost the whole campaign.