Chapter 27
27
W eeks passed and it still hurt to think of him. To think of what we shared and what was lost in such a short time. I lost more than love, I lost my friend.
But it was getting easier.
At least, that’s what I told myself when I was brushing my teeth or folding laundry or smiling through conversations with people who didn’t know I was barely holding it together.
I spent more time at my parents’ house, letting the familiar walls of my childhood wrap around me like a quilt I didn’t know I needed. I was chasing something steady. Something safe. Something that wouldn’t collapse under the weight of silence and unsaid things.
Dad was in the living room, eyes fixed on the TV, muttering about NFL free agency like it was gospel. He barely looked up when I walked in, and I was grateful. Because I didn’t have it in me to pretend today.
Mom was at the dining table, going through a stack of mail with her readers perched on the edge of her nose, her brow furrowed like something in that envelope had personally offended her.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat across from her, needing something cold to cool the heat rising in my chest. I could feel it coming—the question I didn’t want to answer.
She glanced up, and her eyes did that thing—soft, sharp, full of truth. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.
“You been drawing?” she asked, her voice quiet, careful.
I nodded, swallowing thickly. “A little. I finished that commission project a few weeks ago.”
Her face brightened like the sun finally peeked through a cloud. “That’s good, baby. What’s next?”
I hesitated, twisting the cap on the bottle like it held the answers I couldn’t find in myself. “Actually… my agent locked in a showcase at the August Wilson Center.”
Her eyes flew open, mouth parting like she needed a minute to take it all in. “Amaya, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
I shrugged, avoiding her gaze, trying not to let the shame creep up my neck. “It just happened.”
Lying.
It had been weeks. Deirdre had called, breathless with excitement, telling me this was the kind of spotlight most artists dreamed about. That I’d get to display the Taraj Ferrell cover alongside original pieces that would tell the story of my evolution.
And the second I hung up with her, I thought of him.
Amir.
Because that’s what we did. We shared wins. We shared everything.
When I landed my first commission, he celebrated like I’d won a Grammy. When my work got published for the first time, he bought a bottle of wine and cooked me dinner. When I wanted to quit, he pulled me out of bed, put my tablet in my hands, and said, “Start. You don’t need to feel ready. Just start.”
He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.
Every big win and every little one had been wrapped in his voice, his touch, his love.
And when I told him that my commissions were picking up, he smiled at me like I’d painted the stars just for him. Then he slid down my body like he had to thank me with every part of his mouth. The way he kissed me… touched me… loved me?—
I clenched the water bottle so tight I could hear it crinkle.
I needed to stop.
I needed to stop replaying it. The way his tongue had circled my nipple. The way he had moaned against my skin like the taste of me was something holy. The way he’d held my hips, whispered my name, told me I was everything.
I needed to stop needing him.
But it was easier said than done.
“Is Amir coming?” my mother asked, her voice soft but deliberate.
I froze.
My grip on the bottle tightened as I looked down at my lap, trying to breathe through the ache pressing against my ribs.
“I don’t think he even knows about it,” I said.
Another lie.
I knew he knew. Deirdre had told me someone from the label had mentioned it in passing during a meeting. His meeting. And knowing him… I knew he’d remember every detail.
I also knew what it would mean if he showed up.
If he walked into that room, surrounded by art and light and sound, and looked at me like he used to. If he stood beneath my name on that wall, in the place where my dreams were finally hanging… if our eyes met?—
I wouldn’t be able to fake it.
I wouldn’t be able to pretend that I didn’t miss him. That I wasn’t still carrying the shape of him in my bones.
That I hadn’t cried every night after Highland Park.
Because even though I meant what I said—about needing time, about not knowing if we could find our way back—I also meant what I didn’t say.
I still loved him.
God help me, I still did.
But I needed to love myself more.
So I kept my voice even, kept my heart quiet, and forced a small smile across the table at my mother. “I’m just trying to focus on the show right now.”
She gave me a long look like she could see the storm behind my eyes. Then she nodded and didn’t push.