thirty-nine
Sam opened the door wider and stepped aside. She didn't hug me. She didn't smile either, but she didn't shut me out. And maybe that was the thing about best friends — they didn't need you to knock three times and beg. They could tell when you'd been cracked open and they just...let you in.
Her place was the same as always: plants crowding the windowsill, textbooks stacked under the coffee table, a blanket tossed carelessly over the couch. She padded into the kitchen without a word, and I followed, sliding into a chair at the table, my fingers restless against the wood grain.
"You look like hell," she said finally, pouring water into a kettle.
I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Dinner with Brooks."
That was all I said at first. That should've been enough.
She didn't bite. Just set two mugs out and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Waiting.
The silence pressed into me, and my chest felt too tight. I had been carrying so much in silence, for so long, it felt strange to even think about letting it out. Like pulling a thread and watching the whole dress unravel.
I lowered my head. "We fought."
Sam arched a brow. "Again?"
The kettle began to hum, a low warning sound. I swallowed. My voice felt small. "Sam...there's so much I haven't told you."
She pushed off the counter slowly, her expression careful, like she was handling glass. "Okay. So tell me."
I stared at my hands in my lap. The rings of condensation on the wood. The way my nails trembled against my thigh.
"Mykonos," I said first, because that was where everything had started to split.
Her brows knit. "What about it? You said it was just the two of you. Romantic."
"It was." My throat clenched. "The first night, it was—God, it was perfect. He treated me like I was the only person in the world."
My chest ached, remembering it. "And then the next morning...one of his dad's colleagues saw us at the beach. Came up to shake Brooks's hand and Brooks—" I had to stop, breathe, force the words out.
"He introduced me as staff. Like I was an assistant. Someone to grab his notes. And he didn't even flinch when he said it."
Sam's mouth parted, but she didn't speak.
"Things haven't been the best between us since then there's been like tension lingering. It was just jarring how quick he could pretend." My laugh cracked, ugly. "And that was the trip. That was the memory that stuck."
Sam finally moved, setting the steaming mugs down in front of us. Her face was tight, her eyes unreadable.
I wrapped my hands around the mug but didn't drink. The words were coming too fast now, tumbling over themselves.
"And then I saw his mom again—I honestly can't remember if I even told you about the first time."
Sam's brows pulled tight, eyes sharp. "Start from the beginning."
"The first time was at the penthouse in Philly. She came by unannounced. I was there, in a towel. She barely looked at me—like I was...temporary. Something she didn't need to bother remembering. Brooks had to literally say, 'Mom, this is Amira.' That's the only reason she even turned her head."
Sam muttered a curse, shaking her head.
I swallowed, forcing myself to keep going.
"The second time was supposed to be different. He said she wanted a real sit-down, just us. He promised it was important—like she was finally going to give me a chance. His dad was there too. She pulled out a stack of photos of Brooks and I being together in secret and one of me on stage."
Sam's mouth parted.
"She claimed it took nothing for her to find the phots imagine if they got out to the press. Brooks tried to defend me, but she brushed him off like he was a kid."
Sam cursed again, louder this time.
"The third time..." My voice cracked. "We were at this restaurant. She'd invited us—said it was casual. I told myself maybe she'd changed her mind, maybe she'd see me as more than...that. But we walked in and she looked at me like I was something stuck to her shoe. She ignored me all night.
Talked right over me, like I wasn't even at the table. The best part was she invited Margot."
Sam froze. "Margot? You mean Margot fake relationship Margot?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I met her too. At that same dinner."
Sam's eyes widened. "You never told me that."
"Because I couldn't." My voice cracked. "Because if I said it out loud, it would've meant it was real. That she was real and she was perfect, Sam. She was polite and confident and everyone in the room lit up when she spoke. And me? I was just...there. A shadow in the corner."
Sam sat down across from me now, mug untouched. "Mira..."
"I thought I could handle it," I rushed on, voice trembling. "I thought I could swallow it. But then Evelyn—"
Sam's head snapped up at the name. "Evelyn, the building lady?"
I nodded. My stomach hollowed.
"I had a meeting with her. Finally. She was ready to walk me through the suite. It was the first real step toward doing something for myself. And Brooks—he asked me to cancel. Said it was important that I come to dinner with his mom instead. That it mattered. So I did."
I blinked hard. My voice went small. "And then Evelyn booked someone else. I lost the meeting. I lost the chance. And for what? For a night where his mom treated me like I didn't exist?"
Sam's silence cut sharper than any words.
"I keep telling myself I'll get another chance," I whispered. "But what if I don't? What if that was it?"
Sam pushed her chair back so suddenly it scraped the floor. She stood, pacing once across the small kitchen, then turned on me, her eyes flashing.
"You canceled Evelyn—for him?"
My lip trembled. "I thought it was important—"
"Important?" Sam's voice rose, sharp with disbelief. "Mira, are you even listening to yourself? Do you hear how insane this sounds? You gave up your future to sit across from a woman who couldn't even say your name? For a man who introduces you as staff when it's convenient?"
Her words hit like slaps, but she wasn't finished.
"I have sat here for months, watching you twist yourself into knots for him. Watching you bleed yourself out for a man who won't claim you in daylight. And I kept quiet because you kept saying you were happy, because you kept telling me you knew what this was."
Her voice shook now, with anger or heartbreak, I couldn't tell.
"But this? Missing Evelyn? Letting his mom and Margot walk all over you? I can't keep nodding along. I can't keep pretending this is okay."
Her chest heaved, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Because it's not. And you know it."
Sam's chest was still heaving, her words vibrating in the air like they hadn't found a place to land. I sat frozen in the chair, fingers locked around the mug that had long gone cold.
"You don't get it," I said finally, barely above a whisper.
Sam spun, her braid snapping over her shoulder. "No, I do get it. I get it more than you think. You're caught up in something you can't climb out of, and instead of throwing down a rope, he keeps pulling it higher."
"That's not fair." My throat tightened. "You don't see the parts of him I see. You don't know what it's like when it's just us."
Her eyes burned into me. "Then tell me. Because all I see is you, sitting here in the middle of the night, looking like you've been dragged across concrete. All I see is you canceling the one thing that mattered to you for a man who can't even look his own mother in the eye and say,
'This is who I love.'"
I swallowed hard. "It's not that simple. His dad—his mom—the press—"
Sam cut me off with a sharp laugh, bitter. "So what? You're his dirty little secret until he decides it's safe? And what happens then, Mira? You think it's magically going to be your name on his arm at those dinners? You think Margot's just gonna fade into the background?"
The name landed heavy between us, like a curse neither of us wanted to say aloud.
I stared at the table, at the ring of water my mug had left behind, at the way it blurred into the grain.
My voice felt small, smaller than I wanted it to.
"You don't understand, Sam. This isn't just some fling. For the first time in my life I felt...chosen. Like I mattered to someone. Like I was worth fighting for."
Sam barked out a laugh that had no humor in it.
"Chosen? Mira, you sound pathetic. And I don't mean that to be cruel—I mean it because this isn't you. This isn't the same girl who ran away from home at seventeen with nothing but two duffel bags. This isn't the girl who's been hustling and paying her own rent since she was barely legal.
You've fought too damn hard to get here, and now you're sitting across from me, crying over a man who can't even stand ten toes down on your name."
Her words stripped me raw, each one peeling back a layer I hadn't realized I was still clinging to. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, but the tears slipped through anyway, hot and heavy, spilling faster than I could stop them.
"I just needed you to listen," I whispered, voice breaking. "Just for once, I needed someone to tell me it's not all in my head."
Sam shook her head, pacing again. "Mira, I love you, but this? This is ugly. You're letting yourself drown, and you're calling it love. You don't see it, but I do—and I can't just nod and smile anymore. I can't sit here and coddle you while you let him pick you apart piece by piece."
I hunched over the mug, shoulders shaking. For the first time, the sobs came without shame, tearing through me. Because Sam was right. Because she was wrong. Because both could be true.
Sam cut me off with a sharp laugh, bitter. "So what? You're his dirty little secret until he decides it's safe? And what happens then, Mira? You think it's magically going to be your name on his arm at those dinners? You think Margot's just gonna fade into the background?"
The name sat between us like glass shards. My throat ached.
"You don't know him like I do," I said, too fast, my voice breaking.