29.0
"What about this one?" Sam flipped her phone toward me, showing another cabin. Her girlfriend was graduating from med school, and she'd been planning some big surprise getaway.
"This one's way cuter," I said, taking her phone and swiping through the pictures. "And it has the hot tub like you wanted."
Sam grinned, tapping her middle finger and thumb together. "Aye, I hope she loves it."
"She will," I said. "You're so good at gift giving."
"Okay, but she deserves it," Sam said, her voice softening. "She's been through hell this semester."
"Are you guys gonna be working at the same hospital?"
Sam shook her head. "Probably not. She's applying to anesthesiology residencies in Houston. Fingers crossed she gets in, and then..." she smiled, a little dreamy, "we're moving."
"Houston?" I raised an eyebrow. "You and Tati out there together? I'm jealous already."
"Girl, I need to get out of Philly," she said, leaning back in her chair. "I love it here, but I'm over the same blocks, the same people, the same everything. I need a scenery change. Sun, palm trees, less potholes."
I laughed. "That's fair."
She gave me a look. "What about you? You ever think about leaving again?"
"I get it," I said, tracing a finger along the condensation on my glass. "Sometimes I do. But I don't know. I feel... connected here. Like this city's stitched into me somehow. For better or worse."
"Anchored," she repeated, tilting her head. "Or stuck?"
I smiled a little. "Maybe both."
She sipped her tea, watching me. "Yeah. You and Philly always had this weird love-hate thing. But it makes sense—you've built your life here. Even when it doesn't love you back."
The short time in New Jersey had been nice. The house was beautiful. Quiet. Living with Brooks had been nice too—until it wasn't.
But Philly felt different. Messy. Familiar. Real.
Like no matter how far I tried to go, something here always pulled me back.
A waitress passed by and dropped off the check, and Sam reached for it before I could. "I got it."
"No, you don't," I said, reaching for my wallet.
She raised a brow. "Please. I'm the one with a nine-to-five right now. Let me pretend I'm rich for five minutes."
"Fine," I said, smiling. "But I'm leaving the tip."
She pulled her phone back out. "Speaking of ridiculous,Tati just texted me."
Before I could say anything, she hit call and put her on speaker.
It rang twice before that familiar, bright voice filled the space. "Hi lovies."
"Tati!" Sam practically screamed, making the table next to us look over.
"I miss you," I said, grinning.
"Miss you guys more," she said. "What are you guys getting into?"
"We were just saying how your girl may soon be a resident of Houston." Sam said.
"Yes," Tati squealed. "I'm wishing Rylan all the best." She continued, "But seriously, I can't wait to see you both. It feels like forever since we've all been in the same place."
"It has been," I said. "Too long."
Sam nodded. "We need a good girls night again."
Tati sighed dreamily. "My favorite kind of night."
For a moment, it felt like time hadn't moved at all — like the years apart, the jobs, the heartbreaks, the changes — hadn't really changed us.
The three of us were still us.
When the call ended, Sam tucked her phone back in her bag and smiled at me. "God, I miss her energy."
"Same," I said. " Shes always optimistic and in a good mood."
"I loved that about her," Sam said, grinning. "Meanwhile I say Im irritated at least twenty times an hour."
I laughed, finishing the last of my drink.
We paid, hugged goodbye outside the restaurant, and promised to see each other soon. The air was cooler than I expected, carrying that faint, early-day smell that made Philly feel almost soft.
By the time I started the engine, my phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
Brooks
Can I see you?
I didn't even have to think about it.
He had a key now, so he didn't need me to let him in. Just the thought of that—that kind of quiet familiarity—made something warm settle in my chest.
The drive home blurred by, city lights streaking past the windshield. I turned down my block and saw his car already parked out front.
That easy warmth spread wider. I didn't even bother grabbing my bag.
The front door was unlocked, just like always.
"Brooks?" I called, stepping inside.
His voice came from the kitchen. "In here."
I followed it, smiling without meaning to—until I saw him.
He was standing by the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing his hands. The faint scent of soap and steel filled the air, clean but sharp, and the sound of the water running was the only thing breaking the quiet.
Something about his posture made my stomach twist—the way his shoulders were set too straight, like he was holding himself together by force.
Still, I went to him. Wrapped my arms around him from behind, pressed my cheek to the warm fabric of his shirt. "You beat me home," I said, smiling against his back.
He didn't turn around. Didn't even move. "Yeah," he said finally. The word came out low, distracted—flat in a way that didn't sound like him.
I frowned, my eyes dropping—and that's when I saw it. His knuckles.
Bruised. Split. The skin torn open across one side, dried blood catching the light when he turned off the water.
My stomach dropped. "Brooks," I whispered, pulling back to look at him. "What happened?"
He dried his hands slowly, like each motion was a way to buy a few more seconds before answering. "It's nothing."
"Don't do that," I said, stepping around to face him. "What happened?"
He met my eyes for a second, then looked away. "It's... been a day."
The kind of answer that meant everything and nothing.
I crossed my arms. "So you hit something?"
A flicker passed through his face—guilt, maybe, or just exhaustion—but it was gone before I could name it.
"Just... Margot," he said finally.
The sound of her name made something cold crawl up my spine. "Margot?"
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "We got into it."
My chest tightened. "Into it how?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes were distant, like he was replaying something he didn't want to see again.
"Brooks," I said, voice low. "So you hit her?"
His head snapped up. "What? No—no, Jesus, Amira, no."
The sharpness in his voice made me flinch, but only for a second.
"Then what—"
"The wall," he said quickly. "I hit the wall."
He turned his hand slightly, and under the soft kitchen light, I saw the damage again—his knuckles swollen, the skin raw.
The sound of the refrigerator filled the silence between us.
I swallowed hard. "You scared me."
He exhaled, looking wrecked in a way I hadn't seen before. "You and me both."
I waited, watching him. He didn't look angry anymore. Just... hollow.
"What happened?" I asked again, quieter this time.
He leaned back against the counter, the edge digging into his palms. "My parents," he said. "And Margot. They know."
I felt my heart stop for a second. "Know what?"
He dragged a hand down his face, the motion tired, resigned. "Everything. About us. About Alina."
The room seemed to tilt. "How?"
"They hired someone," he said. "To follow me. To follow us."
I blinked, trying to understand. "What do you mean—follow us?"
"They had pictures, Amira," he said, his voice breaking on the word. "Of me, of you, of Alina. At the park. At your mom's house. Outside your door. Different days, different angles. They knew everything."
I stared at him. "Oh my God."
He kept talking, his words clipped, controlled like he was fighting to stay composed. "They think you're using me. That you planned all of it. That Alina's—" He stopped, jaw tightening, like he couldn't say the rest.
My stomach churned. "What did you do?"
"I lost it," he said flatly. "I told them they were insane, that they didn't know what the hell they were talking about. My dad fired Monte—said he knew and didn't tell him. And Margot..." He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. "She just sat there. Watching. Like she'd been waiting for it."
I felt my throat close up. "She told them?"
He nodded once. "Yeah. She's the one who started it. She's been feeding them stories for weeks. She's the reason they had those pictures."
I stepped closer, close enough to smell the faint trace of cologne under the sharp scent of soap. My hand hovered near his bruised ones, wanting to touch but afraid it might break him open again.
"What happens now?" I whispered.
He hesitated, eyes fixed on the floor. "They're gonna leak it," he said finally. "Maybe not my parents, but Margot—she won't go quietly. She's got too much pride. Too much to lose."
The air left my lungs all at once. "So what do we do?"
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and there was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Fear. Regret. Resolve.
He exhaled slowly, the sound rough. "We get ahead of it. You and Alina need to lay low for a bit. Just until I can figure out how to control the damage."
"Lay low?" I repeated. "You mean leave?"
"Just for a little while," he said. "It won't be long. But once this hits the press, they'll find you—where you live, where Alina goes to daycare. I can't let that happen."
I looked at him for a long moment, the words sinking in like slow poison. "I can't believe this is happening."
He reached for me, brushing a hand down my arm. "I'm sorry. I should've seen it coming. I just didn't think she'd actually—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I'm not losing you again, Amira. Not to them. Not this time."
I nodded slowly, still numb. "What are you gonna do?"
"I'll deal with the fallout," he said. "And her."
He didn't have to say Margot's name. I already knew.
The kitchen felt smaller somehow, like the air had thickened around us.
"So," I said finally, my voice thin, "where are we even supposed to go?"
He hesitated—long enough that I knew I wasn't going to like the answer. "I know a place," he said slowly. "But you're not gonna like it."
I looked at him, wary. "Where?"