thirty-three #3
I met his eyes. "It's sitting there feeling like I'm an extra in someone else's scene. Your mom barely acknowledges me unless it's to ask something superficial. Margot—"
He shook his head. "Margot is nothing."
"She's not nothing when she's leaning into you for pictures and you're just—" I stopped myself, heat rising to my cheeks. "Do you even see what that looks like from where I'm sitting?"
His jaw worked, but his voice stayed even. "It looks like PR. Which is what I told you it was. I can't control who my mom invites, and I can't control what the press eats up. You think I'm going to make a scene over a photo?"
"It's not the photo, Brooks. It's the fact that you'll bend over backwards to make your mom comfortable, to make Margot look like your perfect plus-one, but you expect me to just swallow it and smile."
"That's not fair," he said, the warmth in his voice cooling fast. "You think I don't care what you feel? I'm asking you to trust me. That's the only way this works."
"I do trust you," I said, though it felt like a lie halfway out of my mouth. "I just don't know if you see how easy it is for me to feel... replaceable in your world."
His gaze softened for a fraction of a second before he looked away, out his own window. "You're not replaceable."
"Then maybe stop putting me in situations where I feel like I am."
Silence settled between us again—thick, uncomfortable, but unbroken. He took the highway toward New Jersey, the city lights fading in the rearview until there was just the dark stretch of road ahead.
That made the space between us feel wider than the car itself.
We were nearly to the house when Brooks's phone lit up with Dad on the screen. He stared at it for a moment, then answered, his voice smoothing into something more careful.
"Hey."
"You on your way?" His father's voice came through faint but commanding, like he was used to people leaning in to listen.
Brooks shifted in his seat. "Actually, I was thinking I'd stay in tonight. Not feeling great."
There was a pause—too long to be casual.
"Not feeling great," his father repeated, like he was turning the words over in his mouth.
"Brooks, we're less than three months out from the election. There are going to be some very important people at this dinner—donors, media, people who could make a difference."
"I know, I just—" Brooks started, but his father cut him off.
"You've missed the last two dinners," his dad said, tone firm but even. "People are already asking questions. I'm not going to explain on why you're not here again. This isn't optional."
Brooks exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. "I've got something here I need to—"
"What you need to do," his father said, voice lowering, "is show up. Smile. Shake the right hands. Play the part. You can manage that for a couple of hours." Another pause, and then, almost lightly, "Unless there's some reason you don't want to be seen tonight?"
I saw Brooks's fingers flex against his knee, a faint twitch of irritation he didn't voice. "No," he said finally. "I'll be there."
"Good," his father replied, already moving on. "See you in an hour."
The line went dead.
Brooks slipped his phone back into his pocket, but neither of us spoke. The heaviness in the air pressed in on my chest until I felt like I was swallowing it.
When we pulled into the driveway, I didn't wait for him to say anything. I opened the door, stepped out, and shut it harder than I meant to.
"Amira," Brooks called after me, but I kept walking.
By the time his car reversed out of the driveway, I was already at the front door, my keys slipping into the lock.
By the time the car slowed in front of the house, my chest was tight.
Inside, the quiet was different. Not the soft kind. The kind that made you hear your own thoughts too loud. I went upstairs without turning on a single light.
In the bathroom, I stripped out of my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and turned the shower on hot until steam blurred the mirror. The water beat down on me, but it didn't rinse out the frustration sitting under my skin.
I didn't linger. Just washed, dried off, and pulled on a robe.
My phone was still on the bathroom counter, screen black. I tapped it, hoping for a text from Brooks—something, anything—but instead I saw a missed call from Evelyn.
One voicemail.
I pressed play and held the phone to my ear.
"Hi, Amira. I wanted to call you directly instead of just texting. I've decided to move forward with someone else for the building. I really had high hopes for working something out with you, but timing is everything, and this other investor is ready to start immediately. I know you have big dreams,
and I truly wish you the best of luck in the future."
The message ended, but the words stayed.
Big dreams. Best of luck.
I set the phone down on the counter, my hands suddenly heavy. The robe felt like it was weighing me down, the air in the room thick enough to choke on.
I didn't cry. Not yet. I just stood there, staring at the wall until it felt like it was closing in.