Chapter 28
28
T he August Wilson Center pulsed with life—rich and vibrant like a heartbeat under glass.
Muted conversation floated over the sound of a slow, sensual jazz set winding through the air. A smoky trumpet cut through the rhythm, smooth and aching, wrapping itself around the scent of linen, warm candles, and the faint sweetness of vanilla. Soft lights glowed from above, casting a buttery hue over crisp blazers, flowing dresses, and the shine of patent leather shoes stepping quietly on polished floors.
And in the middle of it all, was my work.
My art.
Not tucked in the background. Not crowding someone else’s spotlight. It was front and center—framed, illuminated, seen.
People moved from canvas to canvas. Some paused. Others took photos. A few just stood silently, letting the pieces speak for themselves.
I stood still, nearly overwhelmed by it all.
This moment was everything I’d fought for. The hours sketching in dim lighting, freelancing jobs with barely enough to pay rent, commissions that went unpaid. Doubting myself. Questioning my talent. All of that led me here.
And yet… Something still felt… off.
It wasn’t just nerves. I’d worn those before. This was deeper. A hollow kind of ache tucked just beneath my ribs.
I tugged at the hem of my silk emerald dress—long, with a high slit that kissed the top of my thigh. I’d slicked my hair into a crown of braids and paired it with gold hoops and nude heels. Simple, elegant, me.
Stephanie, my girl from art school, had flown in from Chattanooga just to be here. She’d cried when she saw my name on the center wall beside the gallery title.
Cocoa brown skin glowing under the lights, her red braids piled high in a bun that made her look like royalty in glasses. She wore a body-hugging dress that showed off every soft curve, a designer tote on her shoulder like she didn’t come to play.
“I always knew this would happen,” she whispered earlier, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe. “Your art got soul, Amaya. It always did.”
My parents were here too. Daddy in a dark brown suit, pacing like he wanted to fix something even though nothing was broken. Mama had on a deep plum wrap dress and clutched her small gold clutch like she couldn’t believe any of it was real.
“I’m so proud of you,” she’d said earlier. Her eyes had glossed over. “You belong here, baby.”
Even Deirdre had hugged me, tight and sincere. “This is just the beginning,” she said, eyes darting across the room. “This crowd? They’re eating it up. I’ve already had three curators ask about you. If tonight goes how I think it’s going to go—” She paused, squinting across the space. “Wait—Raj is here. Go, be great. I’ll circle back in a few.”
And then I was alone again. Standing in front of the piece that changed everything.
The mosaic.
A man carved in fragments—each tile a glimpse into the complexities I had tried to avoid.
His hands, rendered with careful detail—capable and tender.
His mouth, half-smiling, half-guarded—a man who wanted to speak but rarely did.
His chest, massive and warm, but split down the middle with gold threading the brokenness together.
It was him.
I told myself it was art. That it could’ve been anyone but art doesn’t lie and when I looked at that mosaic… all I saw was Amir.
I blinked, trying to center myself, when I felt it. A shift in the atmosphere. Like gravity had changed direction. I turned my head, and there he was.
Amir stood near the entrance, dressed in all black. Crisp button-down, dark slacks, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink on his forearms. His beard was shaped to perfection, his locs gone—just a fresh, clean cut and the same smoldering eyes that always made me feel too seen.
He didn’t move.
Neither did I.
And in that frozen silence between us, I knew it was all still there.
The ache. The want. The heartbreak.
The fucking love. But I couldn’t do anything with it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. A voice beside me broke the trance.
“Damn. Seeing it in person is different.”
Taraj stood next to me, tall and magnetic in a fitted black turtleneck and slacks, his energy cool but intense. His attention was on the mosaic, his expression unreadable.
“This piece is unreal,” he murmured. “You did that.”
I offered a small smile. “Thanks, Raj.”
He studied it a little longer, then glanced sideways at me. “Might be my favorite.”
I shifted my weight. “It’s personal.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It looks like it was made from memory.”
I looked back at the piece.
It was.
Before I could respond, his voice dropped.
“He’s been different.”
My brows lifted. “Who?”
“You know who.”
I looked away.
“He seemed fine to me,” I said bitterly. “Tasha kept him occupied.”
Raj’s jaw ticked. “It wasn’t like that.”
I folded my arms. “You don’t have to defend him.”
“I’m not.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been there before. This game, this industry can make us all guilty of something, but he’s not guilty of cheating on you. Tasha was never ever gonna get a piece. He always pushed her up off him.”
I thought of what Amir had said to me in the park. How vulnerable he seemed saying what it was like having all those people around. It was some kind of validation I guess. And while I understood an artist loving the attention, he should have sought it from me.
You were busy too, girl. You were caught up in what you were doing too. Or did you forget?
Somehow I didn’t think of that. How I spent more time at home working on the project and away from him, how I expected him to understand. I swallowed hard. Taj’s eyes were observing me as if he could see my realizations.
“I just think you should know… that man has been miserable without you.”
My stomach clenched because I had been miserable without him and only trying to convince myself that I was just fine.
Taraj continued, his voice measured, steady. “He’s been burying himself in work. Not eating right. Barely sleeping. Tasha tried, yeah—but he wasn’t paying her any attention. Not the way you think.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight.
“I don’t know what went down between y’all,” Taraj went on, watching me carefully. “But I know what I see. And what I see is a man who’s been lost since you left.”
I inhaled sharply, feeling my walls crack.
His voice dropped, almost like he was giving me space to decide what to do with the truth he’d just handed me.
“Think about it,” he murmured.
And then he walked away.
I turned back toward the mosaic, staring at it without really seeing it.
Taraj’s words sat heavy on my chest, unraveling the things I had convinced myself were true and for the first time since Amir and I had fallen apart, I felt something shift inside me.
I looked back at him. Really looked.
And this time, when our eyes met across the room…
I didn’t look away. In fact, I moved closer to him as if pulled by some invisible tether.