thirty-three #2
The conversation rolled on, but for me, the air felt thinner. Every tick of the clock pulled Margot closer to our table, and I couldn't decide if I wanted her to show up late enough to miss the whole dinner—or right now, just to get it over with.
The server returned with bread and poured the wine, and Brooks leaned in, brushing his lips against my temple like it was nothing. "Breathe," he murmured so quietly I almost thought I imagined it.
The wine was smooth, but it did nothing to take the edge off.
I kept my fingers lightly curled around Brooks's under the table, more for my own grounding than his.
The conversation between him and his mother ebbed and flowed, but I caught every time she skipped over me—every little pivot that kept me on the outside.
Then, in a small flurry of motion, I saw her.
Margot swept into the room like she'd been dropped there by a spotlight—sleek black dress, glossy hair, that practiced kind of poise that comes from knowing everyone's watching you.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, her voice warm but directed squarely at Brooks's mother. They kissed cheeks, murmured greetings. Then Margot's gaze shifted—landed on Brooks first, then slid to me.
There was no falter in her expression, but I felt the tiny pause, the micro-beat she took to place me.
"Margot," his mother said, all brightness now. "This is Amira. Brooks's..." She hesitated, and I caught it. "...girlfriend."
Margot's lips curved in a polite smile. "Nice to meet you."
"You too," I said, matching her tone, keeping my hand light in hers when we shook.
Brooks's thumb brushed over my knuckles under the table, deliberate.
Margot slid into the empty seat beside his mother, crossing her legs in one fluid motion. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"Not at all," his mother said. "We were just catching up."
Catching up. I almost laughed.
Brooks poured Margot a glass of wine, his movements easy but unhurried, and I sat there, spine straight, smiling like the room wasn't shifting around me.
She set her clutch down, leaned in to kiss Brooks on the cheek, and then turned to me with a bright, effortless smile.
"You must be Amira. I've heard so much about you."
Her handshake was warm, her eyes steady, and for a split second, I wondered if I'd been wrong to brace myself.
"Nice to finally meet you," I said.
"You're stunning," she said, her tone so genuine it almost made me blush. "I love that color on you."
"Thank you."
We all sat, and for the first twenty minutes, she was perfectly pleasant—asking about where I grew up, complimenting my earrings, even joking about how Brooks had finally brought someone interesting to the table.
I caught myself relaxing. She wasn't so bad.
We eased into small talk—where she'd just flown in from, the weather in D.C., a fundraiser Brooks's mother was attending next week.
Margot laughed easily at Brooks's dry remarks, touching his arm once when he said something about a senator's terrible golf swing.
It was quick, nothing you could call out without sounding paranoid.
When our entrées came, Brooks leaned over to slide the bread basket closer to me. I caught Margot watching his hand linger on my thigh under the table. She smiled, but her gaze held on him a second too long.
"Did you ever finish that book your dad gave you?" she asked, leaning toward him, her shoulder brushing his.
"Not yet," Brooks said, glancing at me before answering.
"You really should," she said softly, almost like it was just for him.
His mother cut in with a question for me, surface-level and polite, and I answered with my best public smile. Across the table, Margot rested her chin in her hand, watching Brooks with a kind of quiet familiarity that didn't need words to make its point.
When dessert menus came, Brooks nudged mine toward me. "Get something."
I shook my head, my appetite already gone.
Margot smiled at him again. "You always were good at making sure the people around you are taken care of."
It was almost a compliment for me too—but not quite.
By the time coffee was served, I'd learned her rhythm: warm enough to make me feel silly for doubting her, then just sharp enough to remind me she wasn't a stranger to him.
"Brooks," she said lightly, tilting her head, "do you mind if we get a quick photo? Just for Instagram—nothing serious."
His brow ticked up, like he was considering it. "Now?"
"Mm-hm." She was already sliding her chair back, standing, adjusting her hair in the reflection of a wine glass. Then her eyes landed on me, warm and polite. "Amira, you don't mind, do you?"
I managed a small smile. "Go ahead."
She took that as permission, stepping in close beside him. The waiter, sensing the moment, offered to take it for them. Margot passed her phone over, then rested a hand lightly on Brooks's shoulder.
"Closer," she teased, glancing down at him. He shifted obligingly, their heads nearly touching. She angled her face toward his, laughing at something only he could hear.
The first click came.
"Another one," she said, her tone all lightness and charm. "This time, look at me like you actually like me."
Brooks smirked for the camera. It was the kind of look that could sell whatever fantasy people wanted to buy—and for a moment, I could see exactly how good they looked together. Photogenic. Comfortable. History that didn't need explaining.
The second click landed in my stomach like a stone.
"Perfect," Margot said, taking her phone back and glancing at the shots. She tucked it into her bag like it was nothing. "I'll tag you later."
The check came shortly after. Brooks's mom was the first to stand, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Drive safe, darling." Her gaze skimmed over me with a polite nod. "Amira."
Margot followed suit, looping her arms briefly around Brooks in a hug that lingered just long enough to notice. "Good to see you," she said, eyes flicking to me like she was including me in the sentiment. "You too, Amira."
I smiled back, even though my chest felt tight.
We stepped out into the cold, the restaurant's golden light spilling onto the sidewalk. Monte was already there, the car idling. Brooks held the door for me, his hand warm at my back as I slid in.
The door shut, sealing us into quiet.
I stared out the window, the city lights dragging in long streaks across the glass. Brooks's knee brushed mine, but I didn't move. My phone was in my lap, face-down. I hadn't checked it since we sat down, but the image of Margot leaning in, her laugh low in his ear, kept replaying anyway.
"You're quiet," he said finally.
"I'm tired."
"We can head to that dinner my parents wanted us at if you're up for it. It's not far."
I shook my head, still looking out the window. "I'd rather go home."
He frowned. "Home? We're already dressed, we're already in the city—"
"I don't feel like being on display tonight."
His tone shifted, a thread of irritation pulling through. "No one's asking you to be on display. It's dinner."
"It's not just dinner."
"Then what is it?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge under it, like he was already bracing for a fight.