3. Amara
AMARA
LaGuardia hits like a slap. Announcements echo through too-bright corridors, someone's kid screaming three gates down, burnt coffee and recycled air marinating together.
June clutches my hand, eyes wide as we navigate baggage claim.
Two oversized suitcases spin past on the carouselm everything we own that mattered enough to bring.
"Is that ours?" June points.
"The blue one. Grab it when it comes around again."
She positions herself like she's preparing for battle, five years old and entirely serious. When the suitcase appears, she lunges. I catch it before it drags her onto the conveyor belt.
"Good eye, baby."
Outside, the city roars. Horns, construction, someone shouting in rapid Spanish at a taxi driver who couldn't care less. The air tastes different here, exhaust and hot asphalt and something in the undertones that I can't name but remember in my bones.
Home.
Six years away, and it still feels like home.
Our apartment is in Crown Heights, fourth floor walkup, two bedrooms with hardwood that creaks in all the right places.
The landlord's daughter showed it to me over video chat last month—high ceilings, windows facing east, kitchen big enough to actually cook in.
My work in Barcelona paid well. Anonymous or not, good art sells, and I've been careful with money.
June explores while I haul suitcases up four flights of stairs. By the time I reach the landing, she's already claimed the smaller bedroom, the one with a built-in bookshelf and a window overlooking the fire escape.
"This one's mine," she announces.
"You sure? The other room's bigger."
"This one has a reading nook." She points to the space beneath the window. "And I can see the street."
Can't argue with that logic.
We unpack slowly. Clothes in drawers, June's stuffed animals arranged on her bed with the precision of someone curating a museum exhibit. I hang her drawings on the walls—her collection of ocean creatures with tentacles and oversized eyes, rendered in crayon and marker.
My phone chirps with a text from my mother.
"You land okay?"
"We're here. Safe."
"I'm coming by tomorrow. Bringing food. Don't argue."
I smile despite myself. No point arguing when she's already decided.
That evening, after June's asleep in her new room, I sit on the couch with my laptop. The apartment's quiet except for street noise filtering through the windows—car alarms, distant sirens, someone's music thumping bass I can feel through the floor.
An email from Katheryn arrived while we were traveling.
"Amara,
Welcome back. Let's make this official. Zoom call tomorrow, 10 AM. I'll show you the space.
Don't be late.
— K.C."
No pleasantries, just business. I've met her twice before—once at a group show in London, once at an art fair in Basel.
She's intimidating in the best way. Sharp, unapologetic, a Black woman who built Sapphire Studios from nothing and turned it into one of the most respected contemporary art spaces on the East Coast, all with the devoted support of her billionaire husband.
If she wants me, it's because she sees something. Katheryn doesn't waste time on artists she doesn't believe in.
I close the laptop and walk to the window. The city spreads out below, lights stretching toward a horizon I can't quite see. Somewhere out there is Cassian. Still living his life, still running his empire, still devastatingly out of reach.
I wonder if he ever thinks about me.
Stupid question. Of course he doesn't. Six years is long enough to forget someone who left without explanation. It’s enough time to find someone else, build a life that doesn't include a ghost from college who disappeared because she was too scared to stay.
I press my forehead against the glass. The cool surface helps, grounds me when my thoughts start spiraling.
Tomorrow. New studio, new work, new start.
I can do this.
The Zoom call connects at exactly 10 AM. Katheryn's face fills the screen—dark skin, close-cropped natural hair, statement earrings that catch the light when she moves. She's in her office at Sapphire Studios, judging by the exposed brick behind her.
"Amara. You look exhausted."
"Jet lag."
"Fair." She leans back in her chair. "How's the apartment?"
"Perfect."
"Good. Let's talk business." She swipes something on her tablet. "Exhibition opens in three months. I'm curating around themes of displacement and identity—artists who've navigated multiple cultures, who exist in those in-between spaces. You're the headline. Your work sets the tone."
My stomach flips. Headline means visibility. Press, interviews, opening night speeches. All under my actual name, not the pseudonym I've been using back in Europe.
"I'm thinking eight to ten pieces," Katheryn continues. "Mixed media, large-scale installations if you're feeling ambitious. Full creative control, but I want to see preliminary sketches in six weeks."
"Six weeks?"
"You've been working on this theme for years. Don't tell me you don't have ideas."
She's right. I do. Notebooks full of concepts I've been afraid to execute, images that have lived in my head since I left New York with a secret I couldn't name yet.
"The studio's ready," Katheryn says. "I'm here now. Want to see it?"
"Yes."
She switches the camera, flips to the rear-facing view.
The screen shows an enormous space—white walls, concrete floors, windows running the length of one wall letting in floods of natural light.
There's a rolling cart stacked with supplies, drop cloths folded in the corner, a paint-splattered sink I can already imagine myself hunched over at 10AM.
"Twenty-foot ceilings," Katheryn narrates, panning slowly. "South-facing windows, so the light's consistent. Storage in the back, bathroom with a shower because I know you'll end up sleeping here sometimes."
I watch the screen like I'm starving. My hands itch. I want to be there right now, want to feel the space around me, start sketching out ideas on those pristine walls.
"When can I start?"
"Whenever you want. I'll have keys sent over today." The camera flips back to her face. "Amara, this is going to be good. I can feel it. Your work has always been strong, but there's something else now. Something harder and more real."
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just deliver." She glances at something off-screen. "I've got a call in five. We'll meet in person next week, go over the exhibition plan in detail. Sounds good?"
"Sounds perfect."
"Welcome home, Amara."
The call ends. I sit there staring at the blank screen, heart racing, hands trembling with the need to create.
This is real. This is happening.
Central Park on a Wednesday afternoon is chaos. Kids everywhere, dogs chasing frisbees, someone playing saxophone badly near the fountain. June drags me toward the Sheep Meadow, her hand small and sweaty in mine.
"Can we see the pigeons?"
"Sure, baby."
We find a bench near a cluster of pigeons pecking at scattered bread crumbs. June crouches low, watching them with intense focus. One waddles closer, head bobbing, and she gasps like it's the most miraculous thing she's ever seen.
"Mama, look! He's not scared."
"Because you're being still. That's good."
She beams, pride radiating off her in waves.
I lean back against the bench and watch her. The city moves around us. Joggers, tourists, someone's Spotify bleeding from tinny earbuds, but she's locked in her own world, fascinated by something as simple as pigeons existing near her.
The knot in my throat finally dissolves. A knot I've carried for six years, tied tight the day I left, that I didn't even realize was choking me until now.
This is right. Coming back was right.
June deserves this. She deserves grandparents who can hug her, parks she can explore, a city that belongs to her. She deserves roots, not the transient existence of someone always ready to run.
And maybe I deserve it too. Maybe I deserve to stop punishing myself for loving someone who didn't love me back. Six years is long enough to carry that weight.
My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out, open the browser before I can stop myself.
Old habits die hard.
I type his name. Cassian Griffin.
The search results load instantly. Forbes, Bloomberg, a dozen society pages. His face stares back at me from thumbnail after thumbnail—sharp jaw, hazel eyes, that expression he gets when he's tolerating something instead of enjoying it.
I click on the Forbes article. "Black Lake's Heir Apparent: Cassian Griffin on Legacy, Innovation, and the Future of Fashion."
There's a photo of him in a tailored suit, standing in what looks like Black Lake's headquarters, Manhattan skyline glittering through the windows behind him.
He's older. Six years will do that. The boyish softness I remember is gone, replaced by angles and shadows that make him look carved instead of grown.
I skim the article. Business talk, revenue projections, plans to expand Black Lake's cultural footprint. Nothing personal. Nothing about Raylin, though I'm sure she's still circling him like she always was, waiting for him to finally notice her the way she wants to be noticed.
My chest tightens. I close the browser, lock the phone, and shove it back in my pocket.
Enough.
I'm not here for him. I didn't come back to New York to chase a man who probably doesn't even remember my last name. I came back for my daughter, for my career, for myself.
Cassian Griffin is a closed chapter.
June runs back to the bench, breathless and grinning.
"Can we come back tomorrow?"
"We'll see."
"That means no."
"That means maybe." I ruffle her curls. "Come on. Let's go home."
She takes my hand without argument, and we walk back through the park toward the subway. The city hums around us. Familiar, relentless, loud, and achingly mine.
I don't look back.