Page 52 of The Spark

By the time we showered—separately,because Amaya was too embarrassed, we stepped into the kitchen to find our mothers already running the place.

Mrs. Beverly flipped buttermilk pancakes with ease, her gold bangles clinking softly as she worked.

Mama was at the counter, slicing fresh fruit with the same sharp precision she used to cut through nonsense.

Their laughter filled the space—easy, familiar.

I’d grown up hearing that sound. It was the backdrop of my childhood.

These two women had been inseparable since high school. I had memories of running through Amaya’s house as a kid, her mother fussing over me like I was hers. Memories of our moms throwing game nights and talking trash while they played spades with our dads.

They had always been a unit.

And because of that, Amaya and I had always been a unit too.

I leaned against the counter, watching them move, their years of friendship weaving through every motion, every laugh.

Mama glanced over at me. “Y’all thought y’all were slick, huh?”

Mrs. Beverly chuckled. “It was only a matter of time.”

Amaya sighed, shaking her head. “Y’all act like you planned this.”

Her mother gave her a pointed look. “Baby, we did.”

I exhaled, rubbing my hands over my face. “Figures.”

Mama passed me a plate, then turned to Amaya. “You happy?”

Amaya blinked, lips parting slightly—like she hadn’t considered it until now.

Then, quietly, she nodded. "Yeah. I am."

Something tightened in my chest.

Mama nudged me. "And you?"

I turned to Amaya, watching the way her eyes softened, her body relaxed.

“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”

Later that afternoon,I was back in the studio.

This album with Taraj Ferrell was gonna make or break the next step in my career.

He was already a name that was starting to buzz, but this album was personal for him.

And now that I knew his story, I understood why.

We were mid-session, the music filling the space, when Taraj leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his beard.

"You ever feel like… nobody really sees you?"

I glanced over at him.

He wasn’t just asking. He was telling me something. I didn’t say anything, just let him talk.

"My old man," he started, voice low, "was a legend. In the streets. In the game. Everybody respected him."

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