Page 5 of The Spark

I sat back, stretching my legs out, letting my head tip against the wall. I should’ve said no.

When my mom called me last week, I already knew she was about to finesse something.

"Baby, I just got off the phone with Beverly,"she’d started, all casual, which meant she was absolutely up to something."We were talking, and with your condo being a mess, we figured it’d be nice if you stayed with Amaya for a little while."

I had groaned, rubbing my temple."Ma?—"

"What? You need a place, she’s got the space. It makes sense."

It was too logical. Too easy. And I already knew Beverly was sitting in the background, probably sipping tea, co-signing the hell out of this like our mothers hadn’t been scheming for years.

"I’ll figure something else out."

"Why?"My mother’s voice had turned knowing. That dangerous mama tone that always meant she was about to get in my business."You single. She single. So it won’t be a sore spot for anyone."

That had made me pause. Amaya was single?

Last I knew, she had been entertaining them damn dating apps. Entertaining men who had no business being in the same room as her. I knew a year ago she was talking to some finance dude—bragging about how refreshing it was to have a man with a plan.

I had made sure that plan ended real quick. Not that she ever found out.

He slipped up and mentioned her name at an event I was at—cocky, loud, talking slick like she was already his. I let him talk. Smiled even. Then made a quiet call to one of my boys who worked in commercial lending and just so happened to know all the skeletons in that man’s professional closet.

A couple of weeks later, she stopped posting date-night pics.

And the guy ghosted her like his whole damn reputation depended on it.

Because it did. Fuck outta here.

I cleared my throat."When’d she break up with that guy?"

My mom hummed."I don’t know. But from what Beverly says, she’s been focused on her art."

That tracked. I’d been watching her IG for months—every post, every drop of something new. Scanning for a man in the background, but all I ever saw was her work. And damn, her work… It had always been good. But lately it was something else.

Charcoal that made you feel like you were standing in the memory with her. Digital portraits that pulsed with color, light, and soul. Watercolor pieces with so much softness and emotion they felt like they’d melt if you stared too long.

Amaya was never just one kind of artist. She used whatever medium she needed to tell the truth. And her truth was vivid. Raw. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, but alwaysreal.

I’d known it since we were kids.

Back when we’d sit on stoops and talk about the lives we wanted. She’d be sketching on napkins, drawing people in motion—her teachers, her cousins, me. And I’d be banging out beats on the side of the table, thinking I was slick. She always noticed. Always nodded like she heard something more than just rhythm.

And now here we were, grown, both living what we dreamed of… separately.

Mom must’ve sensed I was considering it because I could hear the smile in her voice."So, I’ll tell Beverly you’re staying?"

I sighed. "You already did, didn’t you?"

She laughed."Let me know when you get there, baby."

And just like that, my fate was sealed.

I could have put up a fight. I should have. But the moment I opened my mouth to shut it down, something made me stop.

Maybe it was the fact that I knew I’d rather stay somewhere that felt familiar. Maybe it was that, even after all these years, being around Amaya still felt like home.

Instead of refusing outright, I let my mom go on and on, playing it off like I was being dragged into this, when deep down, I knew I could’ve said no.

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