Across The Aisle

Prologue

Cancún, Seven Years Ago

The door slammed behind them, muffling the bass thumping from the beach party below. Dani’s mouth was already on his, fingers tangled in his hair, her teeth grazing his bottom lip like she meant business.

James tasted salt, heat, and tequila-laced cherry chapstick. His back hit the door and he let out a low breath as she pressed her body against his—lithe, warm, insistent.

Her hands slid under his shirt, nails skimming across his chest “Do you want me to slow down?” she murmured.

“God, no,” he said, pulling her tighter.

They stumbled backward, lips crashing again, until his knees hit the edge of the bed. She gave him a push, and he fell back onto the mattress with a surprised laugh.

She climbed into his lap like she’d done it before—like hesitation was for other people. His hands found her legs. Then her waist. “You’re—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, kissing him again. “No talking just fucking”

James couldn’t help it between her hips grinding into him and her mouth at his neck, the words slipped out “That speech you gave. At the open mic? About your mom. About the food bank, about how we all can do more and—”

She stilled mid-kiss “Seriously?”

“What?” he said, breathless. “It was good. You said you’ve been working since you were fifteen and still found time to organize a voter drive—”

She pulled back just enough to roll her eyes. “I don’t think this is how a one-night stand is supposed to go.”

“I know. I know.” He exhaled as she kissed down his throat again. “It’s just—I can’t get that story out of my head. About the little girl with cancer who lost her coverage. You made me feel like an asshole. In a good way.”

Her lips froze at his collarbone. She blinked. “Okay. You’re weird. Do you even want to sleep with me?”

His hands slid up her waist, voice low. “Of course I do.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Her lips brushed his jaw. “So what’s the problem?”

“I’ve just…” He tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

That made her laugh—sharp, amused, skeptical. She pulled back enough to look at him.

“What, you’ve never met a broke-ass community college student with two jobs and a thing for bad decisions?”

“I meant it,” he said, more softly this time. Something flickered in her eyes. Not warmth. But curiosity.

“Where’d you come from, Romeo?”

He hesitated. “Columbia. My parents are paying for everything. Tuition. Rent. The works.”

She leaned back and let her eyes sweep the room for the first time. The plush bedding. The city-view balcony. The champagne chilling in a silver bucket he hadn’t touched. She slid off his lap and reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it back down. Her tone was light but cool. “Well. Cheers to privilege.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” James said quickly, sitting up.

She tilted her head. “You didn’t need to.”

He stood, hands at his sides, then stepped toward her. “This was a graduation gift. My parents gave me a blank check, told me to take all my friends but I didn’t want any of them. I wanted ocean air, blackout curtains, and... no one. For once.”

She studied him, braid falling over her shoulder. Something in her expression softened. Just a fraction “I get it,” she said. “But this? This isn’t my world.”

There was a pause. He nodded “So what are you going to do? After school?”

She looked over her shoulder. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. “Healthcare policy. People should be able to get sick without losing everything.”

“That’s incredible,” James said, genuine.

Dani let out a short breath and leaned her back against the windowpane. “It’s not incredible. It’s survival and anger. Mostly anger.”

He took a step toward her, closing the space between them. “Still... I think it’s brave.”

She looked up at him, her mouth quirking. “You really are terrible at one-night stands.”

“I’m actually not,” he said, letting his confidence return in a flash of a grin.

She raised an eyebrow “and yet,” she added, slowly stepping back into him, “it’s weirdly hot.”

He kissed her again. Slower. Less frantic. More intentional.
Her hands slipped under his shirt again, palms warm against his skin, mapping him like she wanted to memorize the shape of him. His fingers found the zipper of her dress, skimming it. She was already unhooking her bra beneath the fabric and then—he said it “You know, I don’t really know what I want to do.”

She stopped pulled back, blinking. “Wow,” she said flatly. “You really know how to kill a girl’s mojo.”

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing awkwardly. “I didn’t mean. It’s just... you know exactly what you want. I thought I’d have it figured out by now. Who I am. What I want. But I don’t.”

She sighed and stepped off his lap raising her eyebrows distinctly “Well, I know what I want.”

“Wait,” he said, standing fast. “I’m good at this. Really.”

He reached for her, catching her hand, pulling her back—and just as she stumbled forward into him, her bare toe cracked hard against the solid metal corner of the bedframe.

“FUCK,” she hissed, doubling over. “Motherf—”

“Shit, you okay?” he asked, alarmed, crouching beside her.

She was hopping on one foot, her face twisted in pain. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. This isn’t—ugh. You know what? I’m just... done.”

She sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing her foot, breath shallow and frustrated. “Jesus. This night has had, like, seven false starts.”

James sank beside her. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

A soft blush of pink was creeping through the curtain slit, the sky just starting to warm “You know what?” she said, voice soft, lips dry. “Let’s just forget about it. It’s six in the morning.”

He glanced at the bedside clock.

She stood slowly, gathering her things. One sandal near the mini fridge, the other under the chair. She slipped them on, ran a hand through her hair, and walked toward the door. He stood, watching her. Shirt half-open. Chest still flushed. Off his game, and feeling it.

“Wait—hold on,” he said, moving toward her.

She turned, messy-haired and mascara-smeared, with that half-smirk. “Now. What?”

“You want to get breakfast?” he offered. “There’s this spot across the street. Coconut pancakes. Real coffee. No pressure. Just... breakfast.”

She tilted her head, amused. “You’re seriously pivoting from tequila tongue to coconut pancakes?”

“I just...” He shrugged. “I don’t want the night to end on a stubbed toe.”

She opened her mouth like she might say yes but the hallway erupted.

“DANI!” someone shrieked, just as the door burst open. Three girls flood in, still in glitter and heels.

“You didn’t die!” one of them squealed, flinging an arm around her.

“Damn, girl,” another said, clocking James. “That your volunteer hours?”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

She looked at James one last time. “Bye, Columbia.”

He opened his mouth. Too late. Her friends pulled her down the hallway in a swirl of perfume, laughter, and heels. Dani looked back just once—threw him a crooked, sideways smile and then she was gone. James stood in the doorway, dazed, still barefoot, his heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with tequila.

________________________________________

Seven Years Later

Chapter One: Two Sides - Same Fire

James

Sunday mornings in the Eastbrook penthouse are cathedral-quiet — the kind of silence that echoes off marble floors and reminds me I have 11,000 square feet all to myself.

Well, almost. There’s Maria, who folds my socks into tight military rolls. Hector, who has my coffee ready before I open my eyes and Florence, who manages the place like a general with a clipboard and the calm of a woman who prays before she yells.

“You’re not coming to church again?” Mom asks, standing in the doorway of the breakfast solarium, Bible to her chest.

I glance up from my phone, where the yacht club group chat is spiraling into a crisis over who’s bringing what kind of rosé. “You can’t pray away family sins, Mom. Besides, if God wanted me in church, He wouldn’t have invented Bloody Marys.”

“James.”

I smirk, get up, and kiss her cheek. “I love you. Tell Jesus I said hi.”

She sighs. The tired kind, not the angry kind but there’s still a smile behind it. My mother’s the kind of Christian who volunteers and never puts her name on a check. She’s also smart enough to know miracles don’t happen before noon — especially not with me.

“I’m heading to the yacht club,” I say, grabbing my sunglasses. “Tell Florence not to rearrange the library again. I had the poetry section exactly the way I liked it.”

“Most twenty-seven-year-olds don’t have poetry sections, sweetheart.”

I grin. “Most twenty-seven-year-olds aren’t Eastbrooks.”

Downstairs, the doorman tips his hat, and I slide into the back of the town car. On the seat beside me is a glossy magazine. Dad’s face stares back.

RICHARD EASTBROOK: THE RIGHTFUL FUTURE OF AMERICA?

My chest tightens. I flip the page. Another op-ed. Another perfect quote. One day, I think. One day, that’ll be me.

I close the magazine and lean back as the car glides toward the marina. Outside, the skyline splits the haze, sharp and silver.

________________________________________________

Danalie

It’s my first Sunday off in eight weeks, and I already broke my rule.

I promised myself I’d do one thing today that wasn’t work. Just one. And somehow, that thing turned into visiting la jefa herself.

“Mi abuela,” I mutter, hopping into the 6 train. “You win.”

The car is suspiciously empty. I open Notes and type: Fix MTA funding — 96th escalators dead again, Union Square overcrowded, rats braver than ever.

I transfer lines. Nearly miss my stop. Still beat the tamales to the table.

“Mira, mira! Look who decided to show up before Christmas,” Miguel yells, opening the door.

The smell hits me first — cumin, cinnamon, masa, love. Moms at the stove. My tías are locked in gossip combat. Valentina tugs at my skirt and whispers, “Can I vote for you yet?”

God, I love this place.

Abuelo’s in his usual spot. Wheelchair angled toward the TV, volume muted, eyes sharp.

Uncle Jorge grunts from the couch. “Tell Reyes the damn neighbors keep blocking my driveway.”

I roll my eyes. “Perfect. I’ll pitch it: Gracídaz 2025: Driveway justice for all.”

He laughs, grumbling into his tamale. I slip beside Abuelo and take his hand. It's trembling.

“They don’t tell me,” He says quietly. “About the bills. About the heat.”

My throat tightens. “You let us worry about that, okay? I promised you.”

He nods; eyes glassy.

“I’ll work the hardest,” I whisper. “So, no one has to choose between food and healthcare again.”

He squeezes my hand. In that moment, nothing else matters. Not the campaign. Not the polls. Not the pressure.

Just promise. Just purpose. Just family.

______________________________________

James

It’s well past midnight by the time I step back into the penthouse. I round the corner and nearly walk straight into Sophie.

She’s back from her latest exile—European boarding school. The one Dad insisted on because “Eastbrooks belong where nobility sends their spawn.”

“Back from your latest yacht diplomacy mission?” she asks.

I smirk. “Just a boat ride.”

“Uh-huh.” She flashes her screen at me. “Sara’s asking if you’re home safe.”

I glance at the text. Of course. News travels fast in our world.

“We have an arrangement,” I shrug. “Low expectations. Good benefits. Besides, the girl who could steal my heart hasn’t been invented yet.”

Sophie rolls her twelfth-grader eyes. “God, you and your impossible standards.”

I look around “The girl who can handle all this—” I gesture at our house, our life, “needs to have the patience of a saint and the jawline of a Bond villain.”

We walk down the hallway, our laughter echoing against the marble. Dad’s study door is cracked open, cable news humming in the background.

Sophie lowers her voice. “Be careful, Jamie. His standards are worse than yours. elections are months away but...” she sighs

Before I can respond, Dad’s voice cuts through the air.

“James.”

I step inside. He doesn’t look at me—his eyes are locked on the TV.

Onscreen, a woman commands a roaring crowd. Jet-black hair. Fire in her voice. A mouth that has no interest in pleasing anyone.

Cancun

I read it slowly her name - Dan-a-lie Gracídaz.

She’s older now. Sleeker. Still small but impossible to ignore. The camera zooms in on her face, and it hits me like tequila and salt.

The hotel room. Her legs around my waist. Her lips—cherry chapstick and defiance.
“You’re terrible at one-night stands.”
“You really want to talk healthcare right now?”
“Bye, Columbia.”

Holy. Shit.

Dad snorts. “She’s poison. More dangerous than Reyes himself. They tell me Gen Z is eating her up. That little tirade from last night got six million views overnight. Whatever the hell that means.”

He sips his drink, face curling. “She’ll turn this country into a socialist circus. Tax the billionaires, shut down offshore accounts, free this, free that—where the hell does she think money comes from? Thin air? Its people like me who built this country.”

I say nothing. Can’t say anything. I’m still staring at her.

Still trying to reconcile the woman on-screen with the one who kissed me like a dare and left me in the hallway of a resort hotel before I could ask her real name.

She’s everything I’m supposed to hate. Our nemesis. Bold, radical, infuriating and still, I feel that same slow-burn pull in my chest. Like gravity’s gone sideways.

I stand there, stunned and silent, the sounds of her voice and my father’s outrage mixing like static in my ears.

_______________________________

Danalie

The kitchen smells like roasted jalapeños, melted sugar, and whatever war the microwave just lost to Mamá’s leftover mole. The party’s over, but the women are still on their feet. Always are. My legs ache in these beat-up huaraches, but no one’s complaining—so neither am I. Not out loud.

Mamá is elbow-deep in soapy water, humming Pedro Infante. Tía Lupe’s attacking a pan like it owes her money. The rest of us—my cousins and I—are the unofficial cleanup crew. Dish dryers. Plate stackers. Crumb assassins.

“Tell me why,” I mutter, balancing a leaning tower of greasy tamale wrappers, “we’re the only ones doing this. The men eat like kings and disappear like ghosts.”

Alma snorts. “They’re in the living room talking about fútbol and pretending their backs hurt.”

“I swear,” I say, “if I hear one more thing about a slipped disc—”

“Dani,” Tía Lupe cuts in, smiling without turning. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

The collective groan could register on the Richter scale.

Maya throws down her dish towel like a protest flag. “Tía, it’s 2025.”

“And yet the men are still on the couch,” I say, gesturing “This is exactly why I don’t need one. They’re good for one thing and, frankly, even that’s been upgraded.”

Mamá swats the back of my head with a sudsy hand. “Your abuela is in the room. Have some shame.”

“I for sure want a man,” Alia chimes in, grinning. “Just give me one with a private jet and an offshore account. I’ll find the patience.”

Tía gasps like we just set feminism on fire. “What is wrong with you girls these days?”

We exchange a look—and without missing a beat, Maya cues up Megan Thee Stallion on her phone. The chorus drops, and we all shout along, half-mocking, half-empowered:

“I’m a savage (yeah)
Classy, bougie, ratchet—”

Alia lights up. “Boom. Look who’s trending again.”
She flips her screen toward us. The air shifts.

It’s him.

Cancun. Mr. Columbia - James Eastbrook.

Seven years later, and I still remember the taste of tequila and salt on his lips. God, I’m glad that night went nowhere.

Now he’s all grown up—blond, tan, smug—grinning like a Kennedy knockoff on the deck of a yacht. Surrounded by legs, cheekbones, and trust funds. He’s holding a champagne flute like it’s part of his DNA.

Alma whistles. “Dios mío.”

“Isn’t that your rival’s son?” Maya asks, eyes too gleeful.

My stomach twists. “Yup.”

“He looks... presidential. Even while sinning,” Alia mutters, zooming in on a pic of him with salt-kissed hair and aviators like a damn magazine spread.

“He looks like everything wrong with the world,” I say. “Never worked a day in his life. Thinks tipping 20% makes him nice. The kind of guy who calls himself an ally because he reposted a Black square during BLM.”

They laugh, but I can’t stop. I hit the power button and toss the phone onto the counter.

“All those women around him?” I lift my pinky. “Overcompensating.”

Girls laugh, Mama smacks me again making her way to the fridge.

“Relax,” Maya teases. “No one’s asking you to marry him.”

“Good,” I say. “Because someone like him could never be my type.”