Chapter 26
26
M y parents’ house smelled like home.
I clocked the scent of lemon cleaner, fresh sheets, and a faint trace of incense burning somewhere down the hall. Nah, it was something deeper than that. It was comfort. It was steadiness. It was love.
I hadn’t been by in a while, but my mother must’ve sensed I needed it. As soon as she opened the door and saw my face, she didn’t say a word. Just wrapped me in one of those warm, still hugs that made it feel like everything I’d been carrying didn’t have to be held alone anymore.
“You want something to drink?” she murmured against my shoulder.
“I’m good.”
“You will be,” she said, stepping back, her palm on my cheek. “You stay long enough and you will be.”
She was already back in the kitchen, seasoning catfish, prepping cabbage, slicing yams. I sat on the edge of the living room couch, elbows on knees, staring at the TV that wasn’t even turned on.
I didn’t have to wait long before my father came in. Quiet, like always. He eased down in the chair across from me, tugging at the brim of his fitted cap before leaning back.
“She not with you,” he said. Not a question. Just truth.
I shook my head.
He nodded once, slow. “You messed it up?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed hard. “I did.”
He didn’t say I told you so. I’d been bracing for that. Hell, I thought I needed it. But he just let the silence stretch, let it get still.
Then—“You love her?”
I looked at him, my chest tight. “Yeah.”
“You tell her that?”
My jaw clenched. “Not the way I should’ve.”
He nodded again. “Then tell her. But do it right. Don’t go tryin’ to talk her out of her pain. Don’t try to win her back with words you didn’t live by. Just show up. Stay present. If it’s real? She’ll see it. She’ll know.”
I stared down at my hands. They didn’t feel steady. Nothing did.
“But what if she never sees it?” I asked.
My father looked at me, long and quiet. Then said, “Then you love her anyway.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her voice. Her face when she saw Tasha. Her silence in the car. The way she shut the door without another word.
I picked up my phone and stared at our last few texts. Then I typed the only thing that made sense.
Me: You free tomorrow? Highland Park?
It was late. I didn’t expect a response right away.
But a few minutes later…
Amaya: Yeah. What time?
* * *
I got there early. Didn’t know what I was doing, just that I needed to be on time. Needed to be still.
The breeze rolled through the trees. It was quiet here. Away from the noise. From the studio. From everything I’d done wrong.
When I saw her, everything in me tightened.
She was in jeans and a hoodie, hair pulled back, glasses sliding down her nose. Still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Hey,” I said as she approached.
She gave a slight nod. “Hey.”
We stood like that for a second. Just looking at each other.
Then she folded her arms across her chest. “So… what is this?”
I exhaled slowly. “Closure. Or clarity. I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Her voice was tight, guarded.
I ran a hand over my beard. “I know I messed up.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“I let Tasha hang around too long. And I should’ve shut that shit down way before it got to that point.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, and while her eyes were hard, they were also vulnerable underneath.
I sighed. “Because I was arrogant. Because I thought it didn’t matter. That just having you meant no one else could threaten what we had.”
Her mouth pressed into a line.
I kept going. “Studio culture is messy. People hang around, hoping they’ll get something out of it. I’ve been around women like that before. They weren’t about me. They were about what being with me could give them. Clout. Proximity. Fame.”
“And that made it okay?” Her voice cracked.
“No. It made me stupid.” I met her eyes. “You weren’t just somebody hanging on. You’re the only one who ever saw me. Who knew me before any of this. You were never about what I had. You saw me when I didn’t even know who I was yet.”
She looked down, voice quiet. “Then why’d you stop calling?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Because I thought I had time. Because I thought if I stayed close enough, even in the silence, you’d still feel me. But that’s not love, A. That’s convenience. And you deserve more.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, “When I saw her with you... I felt small. I felt stupid. I knew you weren’t like that with her, but that didn’t matter. I saw her hand on your chest and I felt invisible. Replaceable.”
“Never,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re not invisible. And you damn sure aren’t replaceable.”
Her eyes filled, but she blinked it back. “It just… brought everything up for me. Every fear I’ve ever had. That maybe I wasn’t enough. That maybe what we had was just temporary for you.”
I shook my head. Her words crushed me. I made her feel that. I didn’t make her know my love. Not consistently enough. “It’s never been that.”
She inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
“I believe you,” she said finally. “But I’m still in too much pain to come back to this right now. I need space.”
My heart cracked but I nodded and compartmentalized my pain.
“Okay,” I said softly.
“Maybe we can go back to being who we were before. Friends. I don’t know when, though. Not yet.”
I gave her a tight smile, my throat thick. “I’ll wait.”
She nodded once, and started to walk away.
But she stopped and turned back.
“You were the safest thing I’ve ever felt. Don’t forget that.”
Then she left. And I let her go.
For now.