15. Amara
AMARA
The green beans snap clean between my fingers. June sits on the counter beside me, legs swinging, holding a handful she's supposed to be trimming but is mostly just arranging into patterns on the cutting board.
"Mama, look. It's a bean snake."
"Very creative, baby. Now can you actually snap them?"
"But the snake needs a longer body."
I grab another handful from the colander, demonstrating the motion again. "Watch. You hold it like this, then snap. Easy."
She mimics me, tongue poking out in concentration. The bean breaks unevenly, but it breaks. "Like that?"
"Perfect. Keep going."
The chicken breasts sit marinating in the fridge, lemon and garlic and herbs I mixed this morning before June woke up.
Mashed potatoes are next. Her favorite, served with extra butter, exactly how she likes them.
Our special Tuesday night dinner, a routine we established in Barcelona and carried with us to New York.
The kitchen smells like home. Garlic and olive oil, the faint coconut scent from June's hair products that lingers on everything.
Sunlight slants through the window, turning dust motes into little stars, catching on the glass jar of dried pasta shaped like shells that June insisted we buy last week.
"How many beans do we need?"
"All of them, sweet girl."
"That's a lot of beans."
"That's why you're helping me."
She snaps another one, drops it in the bowl I've positioned between us. Her hazel eyes track the movement, satisfied with her contribution.
Those eyes. Cassian's eyes. I've spent five years looking at them every day and pushing the resemblance out of my mind, convincing myself it didn't matter because he wasn't here and didn't need to be. But now that he knows, now that he's seen her, those eyes feel like an accusation.
You kept her from me.
I shake the thought away, focus on the beans. The rhythm is soothing—snap, drop, snap, drop. June hums beside me, some melody from her ocean documentary mixed with a song from school, creating a combination that exists nowhere else in the world.
"Mama?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Can squids eat green beans?"
I pause mid-snap. "I don't think so. They eat fish and shrimp."
"What if they wanted to try vegetables?"
"Then I guess they could try, but their stomachs might not like it."
She considers this seriously, frowning at the bean in her hand. "Vegetables are good, though."
"For humans, yes. For squids, maybe not."
"Everything should get to eat vegetables if they want to."
The conviction in her voice makes me smile despite the weight sitting on my chest. This is June, concerned about a squid's dietary restrictions, building elaborate moral frameworks around green beans, completely unaware that her world is about to shift in ways I can't control.
The potatoes are next. I drain the beans, set them aside, grab the bag of russets from the cabinet. June watches while I peel and quarter them, dropping chunks into the pot.
"Can I mash them?"
"Once they're cooked, yes."
"With the special masher?"
"Yes, baby girl. There's no other way to mash them."
She grins, victory achieved. The special masher is just a regular potato masher, but I called it special once when she was three and now it's canon.
Water boils. I add salt, drop the potatoes in, set the timer. Fifteen minutes, then we mash, then I cook the chicken and sauté the beans and we plate everything like we've done dozens of times before.
Just as we're about to sit and start digging in, a knock at the door fractures the moment. I freeze, wooden spoon halfway to the pot. June looks up from her bean arrangements.
"Someone's here," she observes helpfully.
"I can hear that, baby."
"Maybe it's Mrs. Grace! She said she'd bring cookies today!"
Mrs. Grace from down the hall, seventy-something with a penchant for oatmeal raisin and gossip about the building's plumbing issues. She stops by sometimes, usually unannounced, usually with baked goods that June devours.
I wipe my hands on a towel, move toward the door. "Stay here, okay?"
"Okay!"
The peephole shows a figure too tall to be Mrs. Grace. Broad shoulders, dark hair, a face I'd recognize anywhere even distorted through cheap glass.
Cassian.
My stomach drops. What the hell is he doing here? We just had the meeting this morning. He has no reason to show up at my apartment, no excuse that holds water.
I pull the door open, not all the way, just enough to block June from view. "What do you want? We're busy with dinner."
He's still wearing the suit from this morning, though the tie's been loosened and the top button is undone. He looks tired, like the day wore him down more than he's willing to admit.
"I know. I should've called first."
"Yes, you should have."
Small footsteps approach behind me. I turn, ready to redirect June back to the kitchen, but she's already ducking under my arm to peer around the doorframe.
Her eyes go wide when she sees him. Not scared, just curious in that way kids are when something unexpected enters their orbit. She shrinks back slightly, pressing against my leg.
"Oh. Hello," she whispers.
Cassian crouches down, bringing himself to her eye level. The movement is careful, designed not to spook her.
"Hi." His voice is soft and gentler than I've heard it in years. "You're June, right?"
She nods, still shy but warming slightly. "How do you know my name?"
"Your mom mentioned you."
"Are you the tall man from before?"
My breath catches. Cassian's eyes flick up to mine briefly before returning to June.
"Yeah. I am. Is it okay that I'm here?"
She considers this, tilting her head. "I guess. Are you Mama's friend?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with years of history she can't possibly understand.
"Yeah. In a way," Cassian says, offering me a small shrug when he notices me glaring.
June studies him for another moment, then she breaks out into a grin. "We're making our special dinner! Chicken and green beans and mashed potatoes with extra butter. Do you like squids?"
The non-sequitur throws him off guard. I watch his face cycle through confusion before settling on polite interest. "Uh… Squids?"
"Yeah. I'm learning about them. They have three hearts and blue blood and they can change colors." She's fully warmed up now, enthusiasm overriding her initial shyness. "And they're really smart, like problem-solving smart, and they can squeeze through tiny spaces because they don't have bones."
"That's... wow." His eyebrows go up and he nods. "That's really cool."
"Do you want to come eat food and talk about squids with me?"
My hand flies to pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course. Of course June would invite him in, because she's five and doesn't understand complicated adult dynamics and sees a tall man who seems interested in her squid facts.
"June, honey, Mr.—" I catch myself. What do I even call him? Cassian seems too familiar. Mr. Griffin too formal. "Our guest probably has other plans."
"Do you?" June looks up at him with those pleading eyes that melt the heart when you look at them for too long.
Cassian softens, his walls falling down in an instant. He looks at June like she's the most important person he's ever met, which I suppose she is. She just doesn't know it yet.
"I'd love to," he murmurs.
I want to argue. Want to tell him this wasn't part of the deal, that he can't just show up at dinnertime and insert himself into our routine. But June's already grabbing his hand, tugging him toward the doorway with surprising strength for someone who weighs forty pounds.
"Come on! You have to see the bean snake I made!"
Cassian glances at me, silently asking permission. I want to slam the door in his face and kick him out of this last piece of our life that's still ours alone.
But June's smiling. And he's looking at our daughter like she's the most precious thing his eyes have ever seen.
I step aside. He crosses the threshold. June drags him toward the kitchen, already launching into an explanation about squid anatomy that he has no chance of following.
I close the door quietly, deadbolt sliding home with a click that sounds too much like surrender. My shoulders sag, knowing that I'm in for a long evening.