Page 64 of The Spark

When I landed my first commission, he celebrated like I’d won a Grammy. When my work got published for the first time, he bought a bottle of wine and cooked me dinner. When I wanted to quit, he pulled me out of bed, put my tablet in my hands, and said, “Start. You don’t need to feel ready. Just start.”

He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

Every big win and every little one had been wrapped in his voice, his touch, his love.

And when I told him that my commissions were picking up, he smiled at me like I’d painted the stars just for him. Then he slid down my body like he had to thank me with every part of his mouth. The way he kissed me… touched me… loved me?—

I clenched the water bottle so tight I could hear it crinkle.

I needed to stop.

I needed to stop replaying it. The way his tongue had circled my nipple. The way he had moaned against my skin like the taste of me was something holy. The way he’d held my hips, whispered my name, told me I was everything.

I needed to stop needing him.

But it was easier said than done.

“Is Amir coming?” my mother asked, her voice soft but deliberate.

I froze.

My grip on the bottle tightened as I looked down at my lap, trying to breathe through the ache pressing against my ribs.

“I don’t think he even knows about it,” I said.

Another lie.

I knew he knew. Deirdre had told me someone from the label had mentioned it in passing during a meeting. His meeting. And knowing him… I knew he’d remember every detail.

I also knew what it would mean if he showed up.

If he walked into that room, surrounded by art and light and sound, and looked at me like he used to. If he stood beneath my name on that wall, in the place where my dreams were finally hanging… if our eyes met?—

I wouldn’t be able to fake it.

I wouldn’t be able to pretend that I didn’t miss him. That I wasn’t still carrying the shape of him in my bones.

That I hadn’t cried every night after Highland Park.

Because even though I meant what I said—about needing time, about not knowing if we could find our way back—I also meant what I didn’t say.

I still loved him.

God help me, I still did.

But I needed to love myself more.

So I kept my voice even, kept my heart quiet, and forced a small smile across the table at my mother. “I’m just trying to focus on the show right now.”

She gave me a long look like she could see the storm behind my eyes. Then she nodded and didn’t push.

28

The 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.

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