Chapter One
New York City had a way of reminding you that you were small.
Nia Carter learned that within her first six months living there. The way the trains screamed beneath the pavement, the way people brushed past you without apology, the way the buildings rose so high they blocked out the sky. Back home, silence had meant peace. In New York, silence meant something was wrong.
Tonight, the city was loud—but Nia felt invisible anyway.
She stood in the narrow kitchen of the apartment she shared with Marcus, her bare feet pressing into cold tile that never seemed to warm no matter how long the heat ran. The overhead light flickered faintly, a reminder that Marcus had promised—three months ago—to call the landlord about it. The sink dripped. One. Two. Three. Each drop landed like punctuation to the tension already curling in her chest.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
Marcus calling.
She answered on the third ring. "Hey."
"You still at the house?" he asked, his voice low, distracted. She could hear traffic in the background, horns and engines bleeding through the speaker.
"Yeah. I just got in."
"You didn't wait for me."
"I told you I was heading home after work," she said, keeping her tone even. Neutral. Safe.
A pause. Marcus exhaled slowly. Not tired. Controlled.
"I just don't like not knowing where you are."
Nia swallowed. "I texted you."
"After the fact."
She closed her eyes, pressing her back against the counter. This was familiar terrain—this careful back-and-forth where one wrong word could turn into a fight that lasted days.
"I didn't think it was a big deal," she said.
Everything was always a big deal to Marcus. What she wore. Who she talked to. How long it took her to text back. He never yelled right away—he didn't need to. His disappointment was sharp enough on its own.
"So," he said finally, changing direction. "What you doing tonight?"
Nia hesitated. "Your aunt invited us to dinner."
Silence.
Not the casual kind. The kind that sat heavy and intentional, like Marcus was choosing his next words carefully.
"My aunt," he repeated. "Which one?"
"Simone."
Her name seemed to shift the air between them.
"She called you?"
"She ran into me outside the building last week," Nia said. "We talked. She said she wanted to cook."
"And you said yes."
"Yes."
Another pause. Then a quiet laugh—humorless.
"You don't find that weird?"
Nia stared at the crack in the wall above the sink, the one shaped like a lightning bolt. "Why would it be weird?"
Marcus didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice had cooled.
"Simone don't do family dinners. She barely does family."
"She said she's been trying to reconnect."
"With who?" he scoffed. "Ain't nobody stopped her from coming around."
That wasn't true. Nia had been at enough family gatherings to know Simone's absence wasn't accidental. The jokes. The sideways comments. The way Marcus's mother lowered her voice whenever Simone's name came up, like it carried a disease.
"She seemed nice," Nia said carefully.
Marcus laughed again, sharper this time. "That's how she gets people."
"Gets people how?"
"With her ideas."
Nia's grip tightened around the phone. "What ideas?"
"You know what I mean."
She did. And she didn't want to.
"I think she just wanted to be kind," Nia said.
"Listen," Marcus replied, his tone shifting—softening just enough to sound reasonable. "I'm not saying don't go. I'm saying don't let her fill your head with nonsense. She's always been… confused."
Nia bit her tongue. Confused. That was the word Marcus's family used when they didn't want to say gay.
"I'll meet you there," he added. "Just don't get too comfortable."
The line went dead before she could respond.
Nia lowered the phone slowly.
Her reflection stared back at her from the dark screen—eyes tired, shoulders tense, mouth pulled into a line she didn't remember choosing. She looked older than twenty-three. Or maybe just worn thinner.
She grabbed her jacket and stepped out into the night.
---
The city hit her all at once.
Cold air bit into her cheeks as she descended the front steps of their building. The street smelled like exhaust and fried food, damp concrete and something sweet she couldn't place. A group of teenagers laughed loudly on the corner, music blaring from a Bluetooth speaker. Somewhere above her, someone argued through an open window.
Nia walked fast, letting the rhythm of the city carry her forward. She told herself she was lucky. Lucky to live here. Lucky to have a boyfriend who cared enough to worry. Lucky to be building something.
But luck wasn't supposed to feel like a knot in your stomach.
She boarded the subway, gripping the pole as the train lurched forward. Across from her, a woman slept with her head against the window, mascara smudged beneath her eyes. A man in a suit stared blankly at his phone. Nobody looked at Nia. Nobody noticed her.
The train screeched into Harlem forty minutes later.
Simone's block was quieter than the one Nia lived on. Brownstones lined the street, their stoops worn smooth by decades of footsteps. Lights glowed warmly behind curtains. It felt… settled. Like a place people came home to.
Nia stopped in front of the address Simone had texted her earlier. She hesitated before ringing the bell, suddenly unsure why her heart was beating so fast.
The door opened almost immediately.
"Nia," Simone said, smiling. "Come on in."
Her voice was smooth and unhurried, like she had nowhere else to be. She stepped aside, ushering Nia into the house.
Warmth wrapped around her instantly.
The hallway smelled like candles and spices—cinnamon, maybe, and something savory. Jazz played softly from somewhere upstairs. The walls were lined with framed photos: Simone younger, laughing with friends; Simone standing in front of what looked like a restaurant; Simone with a woman whose arm was slung casually around her shoulders.
It felt lived-in. Honest.
"I hope you're hungry," Simone said, taking Nia's coat. "I cooked too much, like always."
Nia smiled, surprised by how easily it came. "It smells amazing."
Simone laughed. "That's the goal."
They moved into the kitchen, where pots simmered on the stove. Simone moved with confidence, stirring, tasting, adjusting seasoning like she trusted herself.
"You want something to drink?" she asked. "Water, wine, soda?"
"Water's fine."
Simone handed her a glass, her fingers brushing Nia's briefly. It was nothing. Accidental. But Nia noticed anyway.
They sat at the table together, plates steaming between them.
"So," Simone said, leaning back slightly. "How you holding up?"
Nia blinked. "Holding up from what?"
Simone shrugged lightly. "The city. Marcus. Life."
Nia let out a small laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"Baby," Simone said gently, "nothing about you is loud. That's why it's easy to miss when you're hurting."
The words landed quietly—but they landed.
Nia looked down at her plate. "I'm okay," she said automatically.
"Mmhmm." Simone didn't argue. She never did. "You don't owe me an explanation."
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment. Nia felt something unfamiliar settle over her—ease. No tension. No waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Marcus should be here soon," Nia said.
Simone nodded. "He runs on his own clock."
Something in her tone told Nia she wasn't surprised.
"Family dinners get… complicated," Simone added. "Especially with him."
Nia glanced up. "You don't come around much."
Simone met her gaze evenly. "That's true."
"Why?"
Simone paused, choosing her words. "Because some rooms require you to leave pieces of yourself at the door. I'm not good at that."
Nia felt a tightening in her chest she didn't fully understand.
Before she could respond, the front door opened.
Marcus's presence shifted the entire house.
He walked in loud, confident, his jacket tossed aside carelessly. He kissed Nia on the cheek, his hand lingering on her waist just long enough to feel possessive.
"There you are," he said. "You good?"
"I'm good," she replied.
His eyes flicked to Simone. "Auntie."
Simone smiled politely. "Marcus."
The air changed. Subtle, but undeniable.
They sat together at the table, Marcus dominating the conversation, interrupting Simone mid-sentence more than once. Nia watched quietly, noticing things she never had before—the way Simone stayed calm, the way Marcus bristled whenever she spoke.
At one point, Marcus's hand tightened on Nia's thigh beneath the table.
"Everything okay?" Simone asked, her voice neutral.
Marcus smiled tightly. "Perfect."
Nia didn't say anything.
But she noticed Simone watching—not with suspicion, not with judgment—just awareness.
Later, as they stood to leave, Simone pulled Nia aside.
"You're welcome here anytime," she said softly. "With or without Marcus."
Nia nodded, throat tight. "Thank you."
As Marcus led her out, his grip firm on her wrist, Nia glanced back once more.
Simone stood in the doorway, eyes steady.
And for the first time in a long time, Nia wondered what it would feel like to breathe freely.