forty-one #2
A couple of the girls flicked glances in the mirror—quick, polite, already back to mascara wands and contour brushes. Their conversation spun on without me, easy and tight, like a language I no longer spoke.
And suddenly I knew how all the new girls must've felt, walking in while we laughed too loud, too sure of ourselves. I hadn't looked up either.
I laid out my things—brushes, perfume, lipstick I'd bought twice now in two different states—and pretended I wasn't waiting for someone to break the silence in my direction.
No one did.
So I slipped into costume, adjusted straps that felt both familiar and foreign, and caught my own eyes in the mirror. My face looked the same, but the room around me didn't.
A knock at the door cracked through the chatter. "Dream—you're up."
The name hit my chest like a stone I hadn't carried in years. My body moved before my brain could catch up, muscle memory guiding me into heels, through the hallway, and toward the stage.
The music swelled. Lights flared.
And then it was just me.
I stepped into the glow and it was like sliding into water I used to swim in every night—strange for half a second, then natural in my bones.
The crowd blurred into shadows, the bass pressed against my ribs, and I remembered exactly where to put my hands, how to bend my spine, how to make strangers forget their own names.
It was easy. Too easy.
The applause came quick, bills already reaching, and the rush of it hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled. It wasn't the money. It was the proof. Two years gone, and I still knew how to own a room.
By the time the song ended, my skin buzzed like it used to after hours of this. I caught my breath, smiled the old smile, and walked off stage with legs that pretended they'd never left.
Back in the wings, the noise dimmed. My heart didn't.
I stuck around for a few more hours—two more turns on stage, a handful of private dances in the back. By the end of it, my body remembered the rhythm so well I stopped thinking. I just moved, smiled, and let the night blur by in neon light.
When I finally sat down in the dressing room, my bag was stuffed with crumpled bills. Two grand, give or take. Enough to remind me why I used to cling to nights like this. Enough to make me wonder what it would feel like to do it all over again.
Most of the girls had already left, their voices fading down the hallway, the click of heels echoing against tile. I tugged on a hoodie, pulled sweats over my legs, and wiped the last smear of makeup from my face. Just Amira again.
As I walked out, Tim was still leaning behind the bar. He gave me one of those small, steady nods that said everything without saying it.
"Goodnight," I told him.
"Night, kid."
And that was it. I pushed through the door into the dark, Philly air cool against my skin, the city waiting like it always had.
My stomach growled loud enough to make me glance around, like someone might've heard.
I hadn't eaten since breakfast at Tati's, and that felt like a lifetime ago.
It was well past three a.m., and I knew the city at this hour didn't have much to offer.
Still, I kept checking storefronts as I walked, clinging to some tiny hope that something—anything—would still be open.
And then I saw it. Warm light spilling out from a narrow bakery on the corner. The kind of glow that looked out of place on an empty street. Open.
The warmth inside the bakery was almost too much after the cold street. I stepped up to the counter, scanning the display. Rows of pastries glowed under the glass, neat and untouched.
The cashier glanced up, tired but polite. "What can I get you?"
I pointed before I thought too hard about it. "One pistachio cannoli and... a lemon bar."
As soon as I said it, the memory flickered—me standing here before, laughing under my breath while he made some ridiculous comment about my choice. I pushed it aside. Just a pastry. Just a night.
"Sure thing," the cashier said. "Give me about five minutes."
"Okay," I nodded, slipping my card across the counter.
Once the receipt was folded into the bag, I wandered to a small table by the window.
The chair legs scraped softly against the tile as I sat, pulling out my phone.
My fingers hovered, then tapped out a message to Tati—something light about making two grand on my first night back, adding a joke about my legs being ready to fall off.
Her typing bubbles appeared almost immediately.
The place was quiet except for the hum of the fridge in the corner. I let my shoulders relax, stretching my feet out under the table.
The door chimed behind me. I didn't look up. Just another customer grabbing something sweet at an ungodly hour.
I went back to my phone, thumb flicking across the screen.
The cashier's voice floated over, routine but polite.
"What can I get you?"
A pause. Then a low voice answered, calm, certain. "Pistachio cannoli and a lemon bar."
I smirked faintly at my screen. Must be what this place was known for.
The cashier's reply came easy. "Two minutes."
I sank further into the chair, leaning my elbow against the table, chin resting on my hand.
"Cannoli and lemon bar?" the cashier called out.
"That's me," I said, sliding my phone halfway into my pocket as I pushed back my chair.
"That's me," another voice said, right at the same time.
I froze. Not because of the words, but because of the sound of them.
Slowly, I turned.
And there he was.
Brooks.
For a second, neither of us moved. His hand was still half-extended toward the counter, like the words had caught in midair. The cashier glanced between us, oblivious, then set the small white box down with a polite smile.
I found my voice first. "Guess we've got the same taste."
We both reached for the same box, fingers brushing before I pulled mine back too quickly.
"Sorry," I muttered, eyes fixed on the counter.
The cashier looked between us like it was nothing. "Two orders—same thing. Guess it's popular tonight."
I nodded, clutching mine like it mattered, and stepped aside. He did the same.
For a second, I thought that was it—that we'd both walk out in opposite directions, pretend it hadn't happened.
The bell above the door jingled again when I left, a box balanced in my hands. The street was quiet in that three a.m. way—empty but not peaceful. Just the hum of lights, the occasional car sliding past.
I zipped my hoodie up and started down the block, already planning to cut across toward my apartment.
"Guess we're headed the same way."
My stomach dipped at the voice. I didn't turn. Just kept walking, steady, like maybe if I ignored him hard enough, he'd vanish.
After a beat, his footsteps matched mine. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the weight of him there.
"You always walked fast," he tried again, like that was some kind of olive branch.
I glanced over, finally, just a flick. "Or maybe you were just slow."
That pulled a quiet laugh out of him. Not loud, not easy. Like it surprised him.
Silence stretched again. I dug my fingers deeper into my pocket.
"You living nearby?" he asked, voice careful.
I shrugged, eyes on the sidewalk. "Something like that."
Another block passed like that—his voice reaching, mine clipped, the air between us thick with everything we weren't saying.
He slowed his steps, glancing at the park like he was weighing something. Then his voice cut through the quiet. "Is it... okay if I talk to you? Just for a minute."
I didn't answer right away. My eyes followed his gesture—toward a bench half-shadowed under the trees, empty and waiting.
For a second, I thought about shaking my head, about walking the extra block and disappearing back into the version of myself I'd been building for the last two years. But something in me stalled, heavy and curious.
"Just talk," I said finally, quiet.
He nodded once, like he'd take whatever he could get, and stepped toward the bench.
I followed, slow. The wood was cold under me, the box still balanced on my lap like a shield. He sat at the far end, careful to leave space.
The silence between us wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't the sharp, angry kind either. It was full of weight, memory.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, not looking at me at first.
It felt strange—he used to fill silence like he was allergic to it.
After a while, he said, "Do you remember... the first time we came out here? We went to that same bakery and then walked over here."
My lips twitched before I could stop them. "We probably sat at this same bench."
He grinned then—quick, crooked, the same one I'd forgotten I remembered. "You tried to give me a test on finance to see if I was lying about my job."
That pulled a soft laugh out of me, unguarded and quick. It slipped out before I could catch it, and for a second his face softened like he'd been waiting two years just to hear it.
I shook my head, trying to reel it back in. "You were lying about your job, though."
He smirked, not denying it. "And you knew it. You always knew how to read me better than I wanted you to."
The box in my lap felt heavier. I traced the edge of the lid with my thumb, not sure what to do with the quiet that settled again. It wasn't sharp—it was more like something old had cracked open, slow and careful.
He tilted his head, voice lower. "What else do you remember?"
I hesitated, because the safer answer was nothing. But my mind betrayed me—flashes of lemon filling on his lip, his jacket too big around my shoulders, the way we sat here that night pretending we weren't already tangled in something we couldn't name.
I kept my eyes on the streetlamp instead. "Not much." I lied.
His smile faltered just enough to show he caught it. But he didn't call me on the lie. That wasn't his way—not anymore, apparently.
"Not much," he repeated softly, like he was testing the words. "Funny. I remember everything."
The way he said it sat heavy between us, not dramatic, just... true.