The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 9
Morning light poured through the wide front window of Brookside Bagels, catching on trays of sesame rolls and turning the glass counter into a soft golden mirror. Brent sat at a small table near the wall, fingers wrapped around a paper cup that had long since cooled. Outside, the city moved at its usual relentless pace, but inside the shop, time felt gentler.
Lily arrived with her ever-present camera slung across her shoulder and her equally distinctive wide-brimmed hat shadowing her eyes. She spotted Brent immediately and smiled—a quiet, knowing expression that suggested she had already read half the story on his face.
“You look like someone who didn’t sleep much,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Is it that obvious?” Brent asked.
“To me? Always.” She took a sip of her coffee, waiting.
He exhaled slowly. “We almost kissed,” he said finally. “On the Manhattan Bridge.”
Lily tilted her head slightly, unsurprised. “And?”
“And we didn’t,” he said. “We both pulled away. It felt ... right to stop. But ever since then, everything feels more intense. Like I’m standing on the edge of something I’m not sure I deserve.”
Lily didn’t respond immediately. She studied him the way a photographer studies light, searching for what lay beneath the surface.
“What scares you more,” she asked softly, “losing her, or being seen by her?”
Brent frowned. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” she said gently.
He stared at the table for a moment, the grain of the wood blurring beneath his gaze. “After everything that happened,” he admitted, “I keep wondering if she sees me as this ... version of myself I’m trying to outgrow. Someone who’s messy, reckless. Someone who doesn’t belong in her world.”
Lily nodded slowly. “You feel unworthy.”
The word landed heavier than he expected. He didn’t argue.
“And Maggie?” he asked quietly. “What do you think she’s feeling?”
Lily leaned back slightly, eyes thoughtful. “Maggie doesn’t scare easily,” she said. “But she protects herself fiercely. When she lets someone get close, it makes her feel exposed.”
“Exposed?” he repeated.
“She’s used to reading people first,” Lily explained. “Staying one step ahead. With you ... she can’t hide behind sarcasm anymore. That’s new for her.”
Brent absorbed that, the pieces clicking into place. The hesitation on the bridge. The way she’d stepped back—not out of rejection, but caution.
“I don’t want to rush her,” he said.
“Then don’t,” Lily replied simply. “You’re both learning how to stand still with each other. That’s harder than falling fast.”
He smiled faintly. “You always make things sound simple.”
“It’s not simple,” she said, eyes warm. “It’s just honest.”
They sat together for a moment, the familiar comfort of the bagel shop wrapping around them. Brent felt lighter, not because his fears had vanished, but because they finally had words.
That evening, Maggie slipped into her bedroom, the soft glow of a bedside lamp cutting through the quiet. She changed into an oversized T-shirt, hair falling loose around her shoulders, but the restlessness from the day clung to her like static.
A knock sounded on the doorframe. Carmen leaned in, arms folded. “You’re pacing,” she observed. “That usually means you want to talk.”
“I’m fine,” Maggie said automatically.
Carmen raised an eyebrow. “You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”
Maggie sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. Carmen joined her, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight.
“It’s Brent,” Maggie admitted after a moment.
Carmen’s smile softened. “Figured.”
“We had this, um, moment on the bridge the other night,” Maggie said, fingers twisting together. “And it felt ... big. Real. But also terrifying.”
“What’s scary about it?” Carmen asked gently.
Maggie hesitated, searching for the words she’d been avoiding. “When I’m with him,” she said slowly, “I can’t hide. He sees when I’m joking to deflect. He sees when I’m hurt. And I don’t know how to deal with that.”
Carmen listened quietly.
“I’ve spent so long being the strong one,” Maggie continued. “The sarcastic one. The one who keeps things light so nobody gets too close. And now...” She swallowed. “Now I feel exposed.”
Carmen reached over, squeezing her hand. “That doesn’t sound like weakness. That sounds like trust trying to grow.”
“It feels like standing without armor,” Maggie admitted.
“And maybe you don’t need armor with him,” Carmen said softly.
Maggie looked down at their joined hands. “What if he realizes I’m not as tough as I pretend to be?”
Carmen laughed lightly. “Mija, he already knows. And he’s still here, isn’t he?”
The room fell quiet, the distant sounds of the neighborhood filtering through the window—laughter, a passing car, the faint rhythm of music from somewhere down the block.
“I don’t want to get hurt again,” Maggie said finally.
“Of course you don’t,” Carmen replied. “But shutting the door before anything even starts—that’s not protection. That’s fear.”
Maggie nodded slowly, letting the truth settle.
She thought of Brent’s gentle hesitation on the bridge, the way he had stepped back with her instead of pushing forward. The way he listened. And just for a moment, she allowed optimism to creep in.
Was it possible that being exposed wasn’t dangerous, after all?
And, stretching things even further ... was this the beginning of something real?
Carmen stood, brushing a hand over Maggie’s shoulder. “Get some sleep,” she said softly. “I’ve gotta get back to my place. And your heart’s working overtime tonight.”
Maggie lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, the vulnerability didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a doorway—one she wasn’t ready to close.
Brent pushed through the revolving doors of the building with a folded envelope tucked under his arm, Mara’s looping handwriting visible through the thin paper. Although it was mild outside, the late-morning air still carried a bite of wind that tugged at his coat as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He checked his watch, mentally mapping the quickest route to the courier office a few blocks away. It felt oddly grounding to be running an errand—simple, uncomplicated, nothing to overthink.
“Brent? Is that you, man?”
The voice snapped him out of his focus. He turned—and there was Jace, leaning against a parking meter like he’d stepped out of an old photograph. Same sharp grin, same leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. The sight hit Brent with a strange mix of nostalgia and exhaustion. But to tell the truth, Jace was the last person he wanted to see at that point in time.
“Wow,” Brent said, forcing a smile. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
Jace clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve been a ghost. I’ve heard rumors that you went monk-mode or something.” He laughed. “What happened to you? We haven’t seen you at Orion in weeks.”
Brent shifted the envelope under his arm. “Yeah ... I’ve been busy. Different priorities.”
“Different priorities?” Jace echoed, amused. “Come on. You used to run the floor with me. Friday nights, rooftop after-parties—remember that?”
“I remember,” Brent said quietly. He glanced down the street, wishing the conversation would drift toward something else. Or better yet, end completely. It didn’t.
Jace leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We’re doing a big thing this weekend. New DJ, private section. You should come back out. People keep asking about you.”
Brent exhaled slowly. “I’m not really doing that anymore.”
Jace waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone says that until they get bored. You just need one good night, man. Reset the system.”
“It’s not about boredom,” Brent said, more firmly this time. “I’m trying to change some things. The late nights, the ... everything. It wasn’t good for me.”
Jace studied him, eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for the punchline. “Since when are you the reflective type?”
“Since recently,” Brent replied. His tone softened, but the edge remained. “Look, I appreciate the invite, but I’m not going back to that scene.”
Jace laughed again, though it sounded thinner. “You say that now. But I know you. You’ll get tired of playing nice. Hit me up when you do.”
Brent nodded politely, though his chest tightened. He hated how easily old expectations tried to pull him backward, like gravity disguised as friendship.
Unbeknownst to Brent, Maggie exited the building just a moment after him, scanning the street while tucking her phone into her bag. Carmen had texted ten minutes earlier: Lunch? Need to vent. Maggie had said yes before she could think too hard about it.
She spotted Brent almost immediately—his posture unmistakable even from a distance. Relief flickered through her at the sight of him, but it faltered when she noticed the man he was speaking with. The stranger leaned in too close, animated, laughing in a smarmy way that felt loud even across the sidewalk.
Maggie slowed. Something about the energy of the exchange prickled at her instincts.
Against her better judgment, she drifted toward a tree near the curb and lingered behind it, half hidden by the trunk. She told herself she wasn’t eavesdropping—just waiting for the light to change, just catching her breath.
“ ... come back out,” she heard the stranger say, his voice carrying on the wind. “You used to own the nights, man.”
Brent’s response was quieter, harder to catch. Maggie strained slightly, her pulse quickening.
“ ... not really doing that anymore,” he said.
“Everyone says that until they get bored,” the stranger replied.
The word nights echoed in Maggie’s head, dragging up memories she didn’t want—the flashing lights, the drink she’d left unattended for one second too long, the way the world had tilted afterward. Her stomach tightened.
She caught another fragment: “You’ll get tired of playing nice.”
Brent didn’t immediately answer. The pause stretched just long enough for doubt to creep in. Maggie felt heat rise in her chest—an old, familiar armor snapping into place. She told herself she shouldn’t be standing here, shouldn’t be listening. But the image forming in her mind was already taking shape: Brent slipping back into the version of himself she’d first judged, the one she’d worked so hard to reconsider.
The stranger clapped Brent’s shoulder, laughing again, and Maggie flinched as if the sound were aimed at her.
She stepped back from the tree, heart racing. You don’t know the whole conversation, a quieter voice inside her whispered. But another voice—the one shaped by old hurt—was louder.
Without another glance, she turned down the side street toward the café where Carmen waited, deliberately choosing a wide arc that kept her out of Brent’s line of sight.
Back on the sidewalk, Brent watched Jace head off toward the subway entrance, still shaking his head. The encounter left a sour taste behind, like a song he couldn’t get out of his head.
He took a breath and adjusted his grip on the envelope. The errand. Focus on the errand.
As he started walking, he felt a faint tug of unease, though he couldn’t name its source. He glanced back toward the building once. He saw the doors revolving endlessly with strangers.
The city moved around him, loud and indifferent. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Somewhere else, laughter drifted from an outdoor table.
Brent walked on, unaware that the fragile understanding he’d been building with Maggie was already bending under the weight of something neither of them fully saw yet.
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