thirty-eight
The dishwasher hummed in the background, low and steady like a noise meant to keep silence from swallowing the room whole.
I sat at the kitchen island with a half-folded stack of laundry beside me, staring at a shirt I'd smoothed out three times already.
Pale blue, his. It still smelled faintly whatever hotel detergent he swore by, even after I washed it here.
The collar was crisp, buttons gleaming, the kind of shirt that belonged under a suit jacket, not draped across my lap like some ordinary rag.
I wasn't even sure why I was folding it. Monte usually carried Brooks's dry cleaning in, perfectly pressed and bagged, and half the time he didn't even notice when I washed things myself. But my hands needed something to do. Something to keep me tethered.
It had been three weeks since Mykonos, and the house had never felt so big.
The first days back, I thought maybe I was just jet-lagged. That the ache under my skin was exhaustion, that the way I'd withdrawn into myself was just recovery. But the days stretched, and stretched, and I stayed quiet. Detached.
Now, moving through these rooms felt like gliding through a stage set after the curtain had already closed. The lighting was too warm. The flowers too neatly arranged. Even the lemon polish smell that clung to the wood floors seemed rehearsed.
This wasn't my home.
Not really.
I was just playing house.
When Brooks was here, the illusion felt easier to keep.
His voice filled the air, his laugh tilted the atmosphere, even his mess—tie draped over a chair, shoes kicked under the table—gave me something to anchor to.
But he'd been gone all weekend, and the silence stretched so wide I could hear myself think in ways I didn't want to.
I carried the folded shirt to the closet upstairs and paused, staring at the rows of suits that looked like they'd been arranged by a stylist.
Navy, gray, black. A few pale linens for summer.
Rows of polished shoes. Shelves of ties.
The purse he bought me last month perched on its dust bag, gleaming like it had never been touched.
My reflection in the mirrored door looked like a stranger.
Sweatpants. Hair pulled into a messy bun.
No makeup. I looked twenty-one again, the way I used to look in Philly when I'd rush to the bodega in the morning.
But the difference was back then, even in my hoodie and worn leggings, I felt alive.
Here, in this house that was supposed to mean I'd made it somewhere, I just felt like an understudy living someone else's role.
I pulled the closet door shut too quickly and nearly caught my fingers in it.
"Shit."
The word slipped out under my breath, small but sharp, and the sound startled me. It had been hours since I'd heard my own voice.
That was the part that scared me most: how easy it was to vanish inside this life.
Three weeks since Mykonos, and I still felt off balance. The house felt too perfect, too polished, like I was walking through a showroom instead of living in it. I wasn't home. I was playing house.
It started on the flight back. We didn't fight, but we didn't talk either. Hours in the same cabin, the air heavy with all the words we wouldn't touch. He scrolled through his phone. I stared out the window. And when we landed, the silence followed us home like a third passenger.
The first thing he said to me after that trip came the next morning, while he adjusted his tie in the mirror.
Do you want coffee?
I'd nodded. That was it. A nod over a cup, like strangers in the same kitchen.
Since then, everything had carried that quiet. We'd eat dinners without conversation, walk through the same halls without brushing shoulders. He slept on his side of the bed. I stayed on mine.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
He sent a thumbs-up. Then nothing.
I set the phone down and went to the patio.
The yard stretched out—pool, manicured hedges, grass trimmed close.
I thought about the first week I moved in, when I'd jumped into the pool at sunset just because I could.
I'd laughed then. Now I stood on the edge of all this and felt like I didn't belong to any of it.
Back inside, I cracked eggs into a pan and ate standing at the sink. The fridge was full, the counters spotless, the whole house staged like someone important might walk in at any moment. Except no one did.
Upstairs, I showered in the dark, water hot enough to sting. I put on one of his t-shirts and climbed into the bed that already looked too perfect. The silence pressed against my ears until I whispered, just to hear myself, "I'm tired."
It was easier than saying the truth out loud.
My phone buzzed again the next afternoon while I was half-heartedly wiping down the counters. This time it wasn't Brooks.
A photo came through—her in her cap and gown, tassel hanging loose, grinning wide.
For the first time all day, my mouth tugged into something like a smile.
She called immediately.
"Don't text me when I send you something like that," she said, her voice bright, scolding. "I need the full Amira reaction."
I laughed softly, lowering myself onto one of the barstools. "You know I don't cry like that."
"Well, you should. This is a big deal!" she said, drawing the words out. "A whole degree. I'm about to be official."
I glanced around the kitchen, spotless and echoing. "I know. I'm proud of you, Sam. Really."
"You better be there," she said. "Front row, screaming my name."
"I'll be there."
She paused, then added in a quieter tone, "How are you?"
The question caught me. I shifted, tucking my bare feet onto the stool rung. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
Another pause. I could hear her moving around in the background, probably pacing her apartment, excited energy spilling out even through the phone.
"It doesn't sound like you," she said finally. "You used to tell me everything. Now it's always 'I'm fine, I'm tired.'"
I chewed on my bottom lip. My eyes flicked to the purse sitting on the counter—the one Brooks had gotten me last month. Expensive. Heavy. I hadn't even taken the tags off. "Things just feel... different," I admitted. "Like I'm here but not really here."
"Then leave," Sam said bluntly.
The words landed like a stone dropped in water.
I stared at the marble counter, at the faint reflection of myself in the shine. "It's not that easy."
"It could be. You're making it harder."
I swallowed. "Maybe."
She exhaled, the kind that meant she wanted to push further but knew she wouldn't win if I closed off. "Just promise me you'll come next week. No excuses."
"I promise."
Her voice lifted again, brighter. "Okay, good. I need you there. It's not official until you embarrass me with your screaming."
We laughed, softer this time. When she hung up, the silence crept back in, thicker than before.
I sat there staring at my reflection in the counter, repeating the word she'd used.
Leave.
Like it was that simple.
By the time Brooks finally came back from Boston, the house felt less like ours and more like a hotel we both happened to check into at different times.
His trips had gotten longer, his phone calls shorter.
I didn't mind the silence—it gave me room to breathe—but when he finally showed up in the doorway that Monday afternoon, suitcase in hand, it almost startled me how big his presence felt in a space I'd gotten used to being small in.
"Hey," he said, voice easy, warm. Like he hadn't been gone three days. Like the bed hadn't felt wider without him.
I glanced up from the couch. "Hey."
He crossed the room like a man trying not to show he was in a hurry, kissed the top of my head, and set a glossy shopping bag on the coffee table.
"For you," he said, smiling.
I looked at the bag—white with gold lettering, the kind you couldn't mistake for anything but expensive.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
Inside was a purse. Deep green leather, small enough to carry with one hand, big enough to show off. The kind of thing women would notice immediately, the kind of thing that whispered money without screaming it.
"You like it?" Brooks asked, watching my face.
I traced a finger over the buckle. "It's nice."
"Nice?" His mouth quirked into a grin, half-amused, half-teasing. "That's all I get?"
I smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach my eyes. "It's beautiful, Brooks. Thank you."
He crouched in front of me, hands on my knees. "Good. I was hoping it'd cheer you up a little."
I blinked. "Cheer me up?"
"Yeah. You've been... quiet." His voice softened. "Thought maybe I could steal a smile back."
I didn't know what to say to that. He was right—I had been quiet. Detached. Tired in a way no nap could fix. But the purse, the shopping bag, the price tag—none of it touched the hollow place where my chest had started to feel heavier every day.
Brooks leaned in and kissed me lightly. "Get dressed. I made us a reservation for tonight. Just the two of us."
I raised a brow. "On a Monday?"
He smiled. "We can't go out on Mondays anymore?"
It was the kind of line that, months ago, might've made me melt. Might've made me want to slip into a dress and let him sweep me into whatever world he carved open with his money and charm.
But now it just sounded rehearsed. A little too sweet.
Still—I nodded. "Okay."
His grin widened like I'd given him something bigger than agreement. He stood, clapped his hands once, and disappeared toward the stairs to shower.
I stayed on the couch, staring at the purse. Green leather. Gold hardware. Luxury disguised as love.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure which of us he was really trying to convince—me, or himself.
The car ride into the city was quiet. Not tense quiet—just empty.
Brooks had taken a call the moment we pulled out of the driveway, some advisor or donor or whoever had his ear that week, and by the time he finally hung up, we were already crossing the bridge.
I kept my eyes on the water, watching the reflection of the skyline ripple and stretch under the headlights.