While sizzling a steak, I FaceTime my family. Mom asks how I’m eating, how I’m sleeping, if I’m overworking myself. I assure them, I’m fine. That’s mostly true, but Gogo isn’t convinced. She leans into the camera frame like she’s conducting an inspection.
“You look tired, ntanami.”
“I’m good, Gogo. Just adjusting.”
“Nx.” She clicks her tongue. “You think I’m too old to see what’s in front of me?”
“You’re not old, Gogo.”
She narrows her eyes—no words needed with that look I remember from childhood, the one that saysdon’t play me for a fool.
“Use the amakhubalo I gave you to calm your mind. Drink it an hour before bed, uyezwa na?”
“Yebo, Gogo,” I say, even though the boiled bitter herbs never worked for me.
I watch them on the screen—Dad silently assessing, Mom and Gogo fussing. Same love as before—only now it’s weighted with concern for how I’m holding up.
That’s my fault. The reason I can’t slip.
After dinner, I work on my set. The upper floors are finally coming together, rows of tiny bricks stacked with satisfying precision. I used to think progress needed to be big and fulsome to matter. These days, I’m trying to see it as one piece at a time.
Still feeling restless, the Legos aren’t helping me relax tonight, so I head for the beach. It’s busier near the pier, so I chose a quieter stretch of shoreline. Waves roll in like steady breaths, and dusk earns its name—the blue hour. Ombre brushstrokes paint the sky, dark cobalt fading into pale denim along the horizon.
I carry my shoes, letting the warm sand bite at my feet while a soft breeze cools the evening air. It should be easy to relax, to just enjoy the lake and breathe. But as soon as there’s quiet, it’s like a trigger for my mind to start racing.
I’ve slowed my work pace, yet my brain remains in overdrive.
Don’s left several messages, nudging me to book a session. He prefers a fixed schedule. I don’t. He calls it avoidance. I say I’m doing the work—using all the tools to keep myself in check. Even though he helped me through the biggest shitstorm of my life, I don’t want to dissect everything all over again.
A gull cries, briefly shifting me out of my thoughts. I watch it glide across the lake before I resume walking. Back in the quiet, my mind gets loud again.
Luna. Always Luna.
Earlier in the boardroom—beautiful, sharp, unshakeable. She spoke with authority, didn’t take Diablo’s bait, just schooled him until he was scrambling to keep up. The red dress that had my eyes tracing her curves made a statement: bold and striking. She owned the room. Crossing her legs when she got down to business. Squinting hard when annoyed. The only time I saw her falter was when our eyes met. She briefly lost her footing.
So did I.
I just hid it better.
Nearly an hour passes, the sky darkens, and the pier shrinks behind me, but I’m in no hurry to get home for another sleepless night. A swim might help. I pull my tank over my head, then drop my glasses, phone, and keys onto my folded shirt. The water’s colder than I expect but a welcome relief from the humidity. I freestyle out, arms cutting through the ripples, pushing until my shoulder muscles burn. Then I turn back, breaststroking at an easy pace until I reach the shore again.
I climb to my feet—and stop short.
Luna’s standing there as if I’d conjured her up.
She’s maybe ten feet away at the edge of the tideline. Close enough to recognize even without my glasses. But it could’ve been miles, and I still would’ve known the shape of her silhouette.
Water gently crashes against my ankles and streams down my face. But I don’t move. No matter how badly I want to go to her, I let this be her choice.
Walk forward or walk away. The latter would hurt, but the line would be drawn. Poetically, in the sand.
A second. Then another. Two more before she steps to me. Relief rolls in like the tide, easing the tightness in my chest. She’s barefoot, wearing a sheer kimono cover-up—leopard print over a modest black two-piece. But my imagination strips away the layers anyway.
I swallow at the soft sway of her hips as she closes the distance, flip-flops and phone in one hand, wind lifting the thin fabric to flutter against her thighs. A lighthouse beam sweeps across her face, sharpening the details. A scarf wrapped around her hair like a headband keeps the ebony curls out of her face. No makeup. She doesn’t need any.
“Hi,” she says quietly, her gaze crawling over me, tracking the drops of water down my chest to my stomach. I don’t pull it in. That old insecurity stays buried beneath the night we spent—her praise mapping my body with her words, her hands, her mouth.
“You’re out late,” I say, reining in the memory.
