thirteen
The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath me. I hadn't turned on music, hadn't checked my phone in a while. I didn't want to.
My phone vibrated against the table, loud in the silence. I flinched, heart skipping, and reached for it with the kind of hesitation reserved for bad news or exes.
Tati.
I let it ring once more, then picked up. "Hey."
"Tell me you're not doing anything tonight."
I blinked. "Hi to you too."
She didn't even flinch. "Seth's in town. He brought a friend with him—some football guy, plays for the Chiefs, fine as hell. Said he wants to take us to dinner."
"Tati..."
"I know, I know," she cut in, already sensing my tone. "You're gonna say you're tired or you're not in the mood. But Mira, this is a nice place."
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed at my temple. "I don't know."
"He asked me specifically to bring someone cool. You are cool. And you're cute. You'll look amazing. Come on. Please?"
Her voice turned sugary sweet at the end, and I could practically hear the puppy-dog eyes she was giving her phone.
"Where?" I asked, already caving.
"Magari."
I let out a breath. That place was a scene.
"You're lucky their food is good."
"Yes! I'll send you the time. Be ready by 7:30."
She hung up before I could change my mind.
I sat there for another moment, staring at the wall, then pushed myself up and headed for the shower.
The water was hot, almost too hot, but I needed it. Let the steam melt off everything that had been clinging to me all day—confusion, disappointment, the weight of pretending like none of it got to me.
By the time I stepped out, the mirror was fogged and the bathroom smelled like eucalyptus and rose. I wrapped the towel around me and padded to the bedroom, flipping on the small lamp beside the bed.
The dress slipped on like second skin—soft black fabric that clung just right and dipped low in the back. It stopped at the knee, simple but enough.
I curled my hair into soft waves and parted it off-center, letting it frame my almond-shaped eyes. I hurriedly did my makeup routine.
In the mirror, I looked like someone who had it all together.
Even if I didn't feel it yet.
I took a few quick photos and posted them on my instagram story.
By 7:28, I was slipping on heels and grabbing my purse just as Tati's text lit up my screen:
"Outside."
I gave myself one last look in the mirror.
Then I opened the door.
The night air hit me the moment I stepped out—warm and breezy, the kind that made your skin feel alive. A sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb with perfect timing, headlights slicing gently through the dusk.
The back window rolled down, and Tati leaned halfway out with a grin. "Hello pretty lady," she sang.
I smiled despite myself.
She scooted over, making space as I opened the door and slid into the backseat beside her. The leather was cool against my thighs, and the soft scent of cologne, weed, and car freshener mingled in the air.
Seth was in the driver's seat, his arm slung over the wheel like he was born there. He glanced back and gave me a quick up-nod. "What's good."
The guy in the passenger seat turned around too, flashing a bright smile that was almost too charming. He had one of those faces—clean beard line, perfectly arched brows, wide shoulders that stretched the sleeves of his black T-shirt. A diamond stud twinkled in his ear.
"Dion," he said, flashing a peace sign that somehow didn't feel corny. "Nice to meet you."
"Amira," I replied, nodding once.
He turned back around just as the car pulled away from the curb, the bass from the speakers humming low. The playlist was somewhere between chill and showy—RB vocals over trap drums, the kind of music that made you feel like the night had just started and something might actually happen.
Tati leaned over, whispering, "That's the Chiefs guy. He came by the club a few months ago—remember? Tall, cute, threw like two grand in twenty minutes?"
I nodded. "I remember him. He looks different."
She nodded in response, then settled back in her seat like this was just another Friday night.
In the front seat, Seth and Dion were mid-conversation—something about training, sponsorships, and a brand deal that fell through. Their voices filled the car, bouncing between cocky and casual.
"Bro, they had me running drills like it was the first week of training camp," Seth was saying, one hand slung lazily over the back of the passenger seat.
"Man, you needed it," Dion shot back, laughing.
Tati mouthed thank you in my direction, like I'd just saved her from having to endure this alone.
I just raised an eyebrow and turned my gaze to the window.
The city blurred by in streaks of yellow and red light, traffic crawling just fast enough to remind you that people had somewhere to be. I leaned back against the seat, the cool leather pressing into my shoulder blades, and tried not to overthink what the night might bring.
Just dinner.
That's all this was.
But my heart was thudding a little too fast for no reason I could name yet.
Seth turned the music up just a little, and Dion twisted in his seat to glance at me again. "So what about you? Eagles fan or nah?"
I gave a soft shrug. "I plead the fifth."
He laughed. "See, I knew it. One of those quiet ones you gotta watch out for."
"She's not quiet," Tati said without looking up from her phone. "She's just selective."
"Dangerous," Dion said, facing front again. "That's the best kind."
I let that comment sit there, uninterested in flattering his ego. My eyes drifted back out the window. We were turning onto a quieter block now, the city noise softening under the lull of jazz spilling from a sidewalk speaker.
Then the SUV slowed, pulling in front of the restaurant. Magari.
Even the name sounded expensive.
Golden light poured out from inside, warm and clean, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The entrance was tucked beneath a curved awning and two tall planters, the kind of place that didn't post a menu outside because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.
A valet opened Dion's door before the car had fully stopped. He stepped out, casually fixing his collar like there might be cameras.
Seth got out next, tossing the keys to the valet with a practiced nod. Tati followed, sliding out with a confidence that didn't need to be loud.
I adjusted the hem of my dress and stepped out last, feeling the eyes of the hostess before we even reached the doors. Her clipboard was tucked neatly against her side, her smile tight and professional.
"Good evening," she said, scanning the group quickly. "Reservation name?"
"Seth Mayfield," he answered, already half-scrolling through his phone.
She glanced down at the list and nodded. "Right this way."
The restaurant's doors parted into a hush of velvet and low light. The air inside smelled like lemon peel, leather, and something roasted with too much butter. Tables were spread far enough apart to keep secrets, and the waitstaff moved like shadows.
My heels clicked softly as I followed the hostess through the main floor, past wide booths, dim sconces, and couples who barely looked up from their wine glasses. A piano played somewhere, subtle and rich, like the room had its own pulse.
We rounded a corner into a more private section near the back—just secluded enough to feel intentional.
And that's when I saw him.
Brooks.
Seated near the far end of the private dining section, half-turned toward the others at his table.
There were three men in dark suits and a woman in cream, all arranged around a corner booth lined in velvet.
He wore navy, crisp and tailored, no tie, just the collar of his shirt open slightly like he belonged here. Like he didn't need to prove anything.
He looked different here. Not softer—sharper. Like this was his real life and everything before had been something temporary.
His hand rested near a glass of wine, fingers light on the stem as he listened to someone across from him speak. And then, like gravity shifted—he looked up.
His eyes landed on me.
Only for a second. No surprise, no smile. Just a flicker of recognition that didn't quite touch his expression.
Then he looked away.
My body didn't move, but everything inside me rearranged.
The hostess didn't pause—just kept walking as if nothing had happened, guiding us to a round table a few feet away. Tati was already settling in beside Seth, her laughter soft and syrupy as Dion held out the chair across from him for me.
I sat, one movement at a time. My hands smoothed the napkin in my lap as I tried not to glance again. But I could feel him. That quiet pull. Like a gravity that used to feel warm now turned cold.
He didn't look back.
Didn't acknowledge me.
Didn't offer even the smallest gesture to say he saw me standing there.
So I sat.
Smiling politely at Dion. Folding my hands in my lap. And telling myself to breathe.
Because if he was going to act like a stranger—
Then I would too.
"Amira," Dion said, dragging my name out like he wanted it to land differently than it did. "That's pretty. You from Philly?"
"Kind of." I kept my tone light, noncommittal. "I've been here a while."
He grinned like he heard more in that answer than I gave him. "Do you guys work together?"
"Same club," I said.
Dion nodded. "That's what's up. Y'all too pretty for that place though."
He reached for his wine glass, and I nodded along, but my eyes flicked to the other side of the room.
Brooks hadn't looked again. He was angled toward the woman beside him now, nodding at something she said, his mouth tugged into that tight half-smile I'd started to memorize.
A waiter approached their table and leaned in.
Brooks barely moved, just nodded again, like even his smallest reactions were measured.
"He your type?" Dion's voice cut back in.
I blinked. "What?"