“Cum for me, J.”
His voice was velvet, low and commanding. The words were so vivid they jolted me awake. My eyes snapped open, heat flushing my cheeks as I stared at the ceiling, my chest rising and falling like I’d just sprinted a mile.
I sighed hard, running a hand over my face as I tried to shove the remnants of the dream from my mind. But the images lingered—the way his hands had gripped me, the low growl of his voice in my ear, the things he’d done that felt too real to be imagined.
“Why the hell am I suddenly having sex dreams about Ci?” I muttered, pressing my palms against my face. He was just a friend.
My mind raced for excuses, landing on the most obvious one: the liquor. Wine mixed with his presence was dangerous. It was almost too much sober—of course it would tip me over the edge with alcohol in my system.
I blocked out the blinding sunlight with my arm. My head throbbed in protest as I sat up slowly, rubbing my temples. On the nightstand sat a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. Ciarán’s doing, of course. I popped two pills and washed them down.
Then it hit me—the memory of the little show I’d put on for him. Me standing there, baring my body and my bruisedheart. Reciting poetry like a broken fucking muse. And him—watching, letting me unravel without a word.
I sighed. I had fucked up.
“Get it together,” I muttered, rolling out of bed. I needed a reset. A shower to clear my head, then I’d find Ci and make up for the emotional warfare I’d put him through.
By the time the hot water pounded away my self-pity and embarrassment, I knew how to apologize: feed him. And maybe write him another song.
I threw on a T-shirt and tights, slid into comfortable shoes, and headed downstairs. The kitchen was covered in Post-it notes—blue, green, pink—stuck to every surface like a rainbow of reassurance. I peeled one off the refrigerator:
You are a masterpiece, J. The world tries to dim Black women’s light, but yours burns too bright to touch.
I blinked hard and reached for another stuck to the cabinet:
Your presence? Magic. Your voice? Divine. Don’t ever doubt it.
They were everywhere. On the sink, the counter, the microwave:
Divorce isn’t the end of you; it’s the start of something that’s been waiting all along.
A broken heart isn’t permanent. It’s just a place to grow.
Let go of the past. It’s too heavy to carry into your future.
I read each one, tears welling, and stacked them neatly. He knew exactly what I needed.
I was about to go find him when I noticed a plate in the warmer. I lifted the towel and laughed—toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon, all burnt to a crisp. He’d tried.
Then it hit me: the house was too quiet.
“Ci?” I called, moving through the living room. No answer.
I checked his room, the studio, the patio, the gym. Nothing. Back in his bedroom, I found a note on the bed:
J,
I had to go to Atlanta for a few days for an event. Was going to ask you to come, but maybe you need time to yourself. Miss you already, best friend.
I read it twice. He’d left me space to breathe. But the quiet felt heavy, and the space just gave my thoughts room to echo. I didn’t need space from him—I needed the opposite.
I knew he was headed to the Lyric Awards. It was his first big event since the incident with his dad, and the media would be all over him. He wasn’t the type to ask for support, but he deserved it.
Emotional and determined, I pulled out my phone, booked the next flight to Atlanta—leaving in two hours—and sent for an Uber. I didn’t bother packing; I’d buy what I needed there.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I headed out. It was going to surprise Ciarán.
Nineteen- Ciarán
