ONE

The party was at Griffin and Mel’s new place. It was a brownstone on one of those blocks that are almost impossible to get to because of a center median strip. Miss your turn off point and you had to drive almost half a mile out of your way just to get back on track again. It was probably meant to help manage traffic, but it actually had the opposite effect. It took three tries before Keith managed the turn. So Maya was already impatient and in bad humor by the time Mel swung the front door open and pulled her into a hug.

Music spilled out onto the street. Steve Perry, singing earnestly about his ‘foolish heart’ while inside a few dozen people bumped against each other, holding aloft wineglasses and small plates of pretty finger foods.

“Everyone’s here!” Mel said. Her eyes were glassy and her lips slack.

Keith and Maya exchanged a look. Griff and Mel’s “everyone” was very different from theirs.

“Fun!” Maya responded almost reflexively.

It didn’t look like fun. The foyer felt too close, and Maya could tell from first glance that among the ‘everyone’, it was just as she guessed. There were more than a few unfamiliar faces, and among the familiar ones, most were people she knew from experience she would struggle to make conversation with.

She felt Keith’s hand at the small of her back, ushering her forward, as though he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t U-turn, dash back to the car and drive away.

“Where’s Griff?” he asked.

“Oh, somewhere.” Mel gave a vague wave of her hand.

She was wearing no fewer than four rings, each of them bright silver, intricately designed with stones or complicated etching. Her blonde locs were piled high and her head wrapped with scarf that looked like something she may have picked up on her and Griff’s travels, to Machu Picchu or someplace like that.

“I’ll go find him,” Keith said.

His hand dropped from Maya’s back as he brushed past her, and she exhaled.

Mel looked at her, eyes doleful and sympathetic.

“You guys okay?” she asked.

Maya shrugged. “Where’s the drinks?”

Mel laughed. “Kitchen,” she said, pointing somewhere vaguely off to the left. “Grab something then come find me. I’ll give you the tour.”

Then she too was gone, and Maya was alone.

For a few moments, she scanned the room and this time she recognized a few more faces. Friends of Griff’s, who Maya occasionally ran into on one of the many occasions that he and Mel orchestrated. He and Mel were always cooking up ‘occasions’, but this time the party was justified. They had bought their first home, a three-story-with-finished-basement townhouse in the heart of the city, in a neighborhood where no one else Maya knew could ever have afforded to live. But Griff and Mel had done some magic that involved “mutual aid” from their “community of friends” managing to raise almost one-hundred-and seventy thousand dollars in gifts as a down payment.

‘In what world can you just beg your friends for money to buy yourself a house?’ Keith had asked.

‘In Griff and Mel’s world,’ Maya answered snappishly, even though she’d secretly wondered the same thing.

Griff, Mel, and their friends were part of a group of artists—singers, songwriters, visual artists, and poets—all of them pushing forty, casting about through life making art and babies, living in a state that swung sharply between middle-class and near-destitution. They had a complicated network of relationships that could be extraordinarily effective at things like getting zoning permits for urban farms, shutting down plans for charter schools and, in Griff and Mel’s case, raising money—with no expectation of repayment—to help them purchase real estate valued at more than a half-million dollars.

As she headed in the direction where she intuited the kitchen would be, Maya looked around. The house had what people called “great bones.” Original wood paneling, tin ceilings and the kind of detailed craftsmanship that was now rare and expensive. In a matter of months, Griff and Mel would have roped yet another group of friends into a full-on restoration project and by the end of the year, they would have increased the value of their house well in excess of what it was currently worth.

Tripping past a couple in the narrow hallway leading toward the rear of the townhouse, Maya took note of a door under the stairway—probably a powder room—and the one opposite (likely leading down to the basement).

“May-bug!”

Before she knew what was happening, Maya was pulled into a firm, warm hug. The scent of something herbaceous enveloped her, then her brother was holding her at arms’ length and kissing her on the forehead.

Griff was the quintessentially tall, dark, and handsome ideal, complete with strong, square shoulders, broad chest, and arms like trunks. For much of their lives, Maya had watched women stare at her brother with something like awe, while he careened in and out of relationships, leaving nothing but wreckage behind. That is, until he met his Waterloo in Melanie seven years ago.

“How d’you like the new crib?” he asked.

“Haven’t had a chance to see it all yet,” she said. “Just got here. Keith’s looking for you. I was just going to ...” She pointed toward what she believed was the kitchen.

“You look tense,” Griff said, squeezing her shoulder. “When you’re ready c’mon downstairs so I can smoke you out.”

Maya smiled and nodded. “Thanks. I’ll— yeah. Sure.”

Griff gently moved her aside and opened one of the hallway doors, disappearing through it and letting it shut behind him.

The kitchen was indeed at the end of the hallway. It was large, and wide, spanning what looked to be the entire breadth of the townhouse, with a center island and to the left a living/dining area that was occupied only by a farmhouse table—probably constructed by Griff himself—and two benches on either side. On the table was an array of foods, all of it beautiful and from Maya’s standpoint at least, probably inedible since Griff and Mel were vegan.

The other guests didn’t seem dissuaded though. They filed around the table, picking items up and putting them on their little plates, cooing and oohing over the selections.

Maya sighed.

Turning to her right, her dark brown eyes met a pair of hazel ones.

“Drink?”

He was standing at the center island, itself covered, but with various bottles and two large buckets of ice.

“Sure.” Maya moved closer. “What looks good?”

“Anything but the food,” he said dryly.

At that, she took him in more fully and smiled. “You read my mind. I always forget to eat before I come to one of Griff and Mel’s things.”

Reaching for a bottle of red, Maya spun around until Hazel Eyes handed her a clean wineglass. She nodded her thanks and gave herself a generous pour.

When she looked up again, he was watching her, a bemused smile on his lips.

“Have we—” she began.

“Kian.” He extended a hand and Maya took it.

It was soft and slightly damp from the beer bottle he had switched to his left hand.

“Kian,” she repeated. “Maya.”

“Griff’s sister,” he said.

Maya nodded and smiled back at him. “Yeah. Did he—”

“Your name comes up,” he acknowledged. “With Mel sometimes.”

“Oh.” Maya squinted a little. “So, you are—”

“Her brother.”

“Oh!”

She saw it now. The browned-butter complexion, the almost ash-blonde hair. His was cut low and his face, framed by an equally low, and neatly shaped goatee.

“Good to meet you, finally,” Kian said. “So, I guess you’re not one of the enlightened.”

“Excuse me?”

He motioned in the direction of the farmhouse table buffet.

“Oh. Yeah. Nah. Not vegan,” Maya said. “In fact, I could murder a burger right now.”

“A lamb burger,” Kian amended.

“With blue cheese. Red onions. Maybe even bacon.”

“Bacon?” He feigned outrage. “That would be not just murder, but murder with aggravating factors. You do know exactly how they execute those poor little piggies, don’t you? I mean, haven’t you watched the videos they sent you?”

Maya shook her head. “I didn’t get the videos. I told Griff I’d never speak to him again if he ever dropped any of that crap in my inbox.”

“Well, count yourself lucky. Mel sent me a whole series from PETA. Almost converted me. Almost.”

Maya took a sip of her wine and smiled at him. “Serves you right for watching them.”

A few beats of silence passed. Maya looked around the room. People were drifting in and out, most of them dressed much as Mel had been—in ethnic prints, scarves, scruffy sandals and often with equally scruffy hair. The men as well as the women.

“If Bob Marley wasn’t so loud, you’d hear my stomach growling right now,” Kian said.

Maya turned her attention to him once again. “Same.”

“Any reason we should suffer? About two blocks down, there’s a ...”

“Found the drinks, I see.”

Maya turned at the sound of Keith’s voice.

“Beeline,” she answered.

“This house is sick,” Keith said. He stretched and leaned past her, grabbing the neck of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. “I don’t know how they pulled this off, but—”

“Keith.” Maya spoke over him. “This is Kian. Mel’s brother,” she added significantly.

Keith paused for a moment then looked up as though noticing for the first time that they were not alone.

“Hey,” he said.

“Good to meet you,” Kian said. “You’re —”

Keith relinquished the bottle of gin and stood upright, giving Kian his full attention.

“Keith. Williamson.” He extended his hand again, this time in the other man’s direction. “Maya’s husband.”

~~~

Mel’s hair was fanned out on the pillow behind her, and she lay with knees propped up; one leg crossed over the other. A tiny little thing, she was at ease in her compact, almost androgynous body. Toying with the corner of her big toenail, she stared absently at the ceiling while she spoke, her voice dreamy.

“We’re thinking this year,” she said. “I think Griff is ready. And now with the house— I feel like we’re ready, y’know?”

Maya nodded.

She was sitting at the edge of the bed, still somewhat staggered by the size of the master bedroom. Rooms in these old houses were usually small and pokey, but this one was anything but. She guessed this had once been an upstairs parlor. There were built-in bookshelves, most of them chipped and in need of fresh varnish, but still ... bookshelves in the bedroom. She would kill for a room like this.

“You definitely have room for it,” she said.

“Right?” Mel’s eyes lit up. “I know people don’t do that anymore, but I think I want at least three. Hell, I’d have four if we could. But Griff says he’s putting his foot down at two.”

“I can actually see him with four kids,” Maya said honestly. “His own little tribe. He would love it.”

“I think so, too,” Mel said, her voice going all soft again.

“But you’re the one who has to— gestate these kids, though.”

Mel jerked forward in laughter. “Gestate?” she said. “Oh my god, Maya. You make it sound so clinical. I’ll be making human beings. What could be less clinical than that?”

“No. Of course. Just— the physical toll on your body—”

“I don’t care about that.” Mel rubbed her stomach. “I can’t wait. I could stand to gain some curves.”

Maya said nothing.

“Anyway. So, what’s going on with you and Keith? It felt a little— something when you guys came in.”

“Nothing new. Just the usual.”

Something flashed in Mel’s eyes that looked to Maya uncomfortably like sympathy.

Except why shouldn’t Mel be sympathetic toward her? She and Griff, even after all this time, acted like a couple still in the blush of new love.

They met on an artists’ retreat in Oregon. Of course they did.

Griff was the maverick cabinetmaker—though he preferred ‘carpenter’ since he thought cabinetmaker sounded pretentious and bourgeois—and Mel a painter of whimsical miniatures, except she had turned the Victorian era miniature portraiture tradition on its head and instead did tiny renderings exclusively of Black women. Griff once told Maya that while the work had captured his interest, it also irritated him for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate.

Then he found out that Mel wasn’t what she appeared to be—a skinny little white chick—but a Black woman who for a lifetime had struggled to be identified as such. Her work, she explained to him, was her portraying over and over again, the person she saw herself as inside, but who the world did not recognize to be. Her work was a collection of renditions of Black womanhood—different classes, shapes, and shades, but all Black women portrayed in a format and tradition was recognizably European.

Like me, Mel told him. Black, but in a container that projects whiteness.

Upon hearing this story, which Griff told with admiration, Maya thought Mel sounded a little kooky, but that it was nothing a little therapy wouldn’t fix. That, or coupling up with a dark-skinned man and having four unambiguously Black babies. But that was a cynical interpretation—Mel treated Griff like a god. And he reciprocated. Sometimes just watching the way they were together opened up a hole in Maya’s chest like a fresh, gaping, and bloody wound.

“Y’know what’s embarrassing?” Mel said. “We chose this neighborhood because of the school district.”

It had only taken Mel a few seconds to turn the conversation back to her and Griff. She was self-centered, but mostly in a benign, charming way. And also, Maya wasn’t particularly keen on having yet another discussion about her and Keith.

“What?” she asked. “What’s embarrassing about that?”

“Such a middle-class concern, right? Like who would have thought that Griff and I would turn into the kinds of people who choose where to live based on the school we might send our not-yet-born kids to?”

“It’s a fair concern to have, Mel,” Maya assured her. “Your kids will have to go to school somewhere, so why not in a good school district? It’s a responsible thing to think about.”

“I know. Of course. But some of our friends homeschool. You know, to affirm Black history, culture, and pedagogy.”

Maya wasn’t even sure she knew what ‘pedagogy’ meant.

“Not to mention, I always thought of us as the kinds of people who would move into a transitioning neighborhood and then helping to revitalize it. This kind of feels like we sold out a little bit,” Mel continued.

“You didn’t,” Maya assured her sister-in-law. “No one who crowdfunded a house can be considered to have sold out to the establishment. Trust me on this.”

“We just have a wonderful and generous community,” Mel said. “That’s all.”

“I met your brother downstairs earlier,” Maya said, desperately wanting to change the subject. She never knew how to respond when Mel went off on one of her rhapsodies about her and Griff’s “community.”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?”

Maya shrugged. “I guess.”

“Admit it, he’s gorgeous.” Mel said teasingly.

“Who’s gorgeous?”

Maya’s head whipped around toward the bedroom door and Mel jerked upright.

“God, Kian! You don’t just barge in like that!”

“Sorry. Griff said you were up here and I just wanted to let you know I’m out.”

Mel sprang from the bed. “Why? You literally just got here.”

“Because I’m starving, that’s why,” he said baldly. “I saw the house. Good job on that. And now I gotta get something to eat.”

Maya stifled a smile. Kian’s eyes flitted away from his sister and toward her. She felt her face grow a little warm under his scrutiny.

“You mean you have to get some meat to eat,” Mel said.

“Exactly. I need some meat. So—” He hooked his thumb toward the door. “I’ll holla at you— whenever.”

“Did you see Griff?”

“Yes, Mel. I saw Griff. Told him he done good providing for my big sister.”

“Okay, fine. Thank you for coming, I guess.”

Mel reached up and hugged her brother’s neck. He had to lean forward a little to make the hug possible. Over Mel’s shoulder, he gave Maya a significant look, averting his gaze toward the door.

She smiled at him, and he repeated the same look, inclining his head almost imperceptibly.

“Mel, I think I’ll go back down,” Maya said. “And see what I can scrounge up. And to refresh my—” She held her wineglass aloft.

“Alright. But don’t you and Keith abandon me too without letting me know you’re leaving,” she said.

“I won’t.” Maya got up and brushed past Mel and her brother.

She was halfway down the stairs when he caught up with her.

“Interested in seeing whether we can find that lamb burger?” he asked.

Maya hesitated for only a second. “Sure.”

~~~

“How long you been married?”

Maya and Kian were just inside a nearby gastropub, waiting at the hostess station while she went in search of a table for them. They had walked a few blocks, Maya thought aimlessly, until they arrived, and Kian assured Maya he’d eaten there before.

Not sure they have lamb burgers, but the food’s pretty decent, he said. And they have some good IPAs.

Maya had shrugged her assent, and they went in. She was still a little in awe of herself that, telling no one, she had simply walked out of her brother’s housewarming with Kian when he was practically a stranger. Well, not practically. He was a stranger, despite being Mel’s brother. But Maya had no illusions that that was the entire reason she left with him.

Kian was interesting to look at. Not just handsome, but interesting. A narrow but slightly crooked nose, like it had once been broken and reset; a nut-brown complexion that pleasantly contrasted with his hair, the same shade as wet sand, but streaked with blonde. Full lips and high cheekbones; features that made you keep looking and each time discover one more intriguing thing.

“You cut right to the chase, huh?” Maya laughed.

Kian grinned at her, then shrugged. “What? You walk out of a party with me no questions asked, so you can’t be surprised I’m wondering what your husband would think.”

“If you’re worried about what he would think, why did you ask me to come?”

Kian stared at her for a few beats. “I’m trying to figure that out,” he said.

“Then we’re in the same boat. I’m trying to figure out why I came.”

Then the hostess returned, leading them toward a table near the back. The dining room wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t packed either. There were just enough patrons to make the place feel lively but not overcrowded. Once they were seated and had their menus, Kian looked across the table at her again.

“So, tell me,” he said.

“Tell you what?” Maya kept her eyes trained downward at the menu, even though she honestly wasn’t processing a single thing on it.

Reaching across the table, Kian gently lowered it.

“About the state of my marriage?” she said. “Is that what you’re asking?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Basically.”

Maya thought for a few beats. This part was always tricky to navigate. Some men were intrigued. Others repelled. And many of them were actually excited. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know just yet how Kian would respond, because it might disappoint her.

“Your ring,” Kian said before she could speak.

Lifting her left hand, Maya showed him the slender gold band. Almost as thin as a wire, it was often overlooked altogether, which was how she liked it.

“It’s more like an— anti-ring,” he finished.

Maya smiled. “I’ve never heard it described that way. But yes, I guess I see how someone could reach that conclusion.”

Kian’s hazel eyes narrowed but never left hers. He nodded slowly.

“I think I get it,” he said.

“What do you get?” Maya lowered the menu entirely, resting it on the table next to his.

“You and your husband. You’re open. Your marriage, I mean.”

Maya smiled. It was a good guess. But it was wrong.

“No,” she said. “We aren’t. Not— not exactly.”

Kian’s face changed a little. It didn’t quite fall, but Maya sensed he was disappointed.

“But it— It isn’t a traditional marriage,” she said.

He looked at her expectantly, and Maya considered how much to share. He would likely ask Mel later, since he seemed so interested. And Melanie was many things, but discreet was not one of them.

“We’re— my husband and I are just— We’re friends. Not lovers. Not intimate partners. Never have been.”

Kian leaned in, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he said. “Are you for real? How— Is it rude to ask? But I mean, how’d that happen?”

“A very complicated series of events,” Maya said, keeping her voice light.

“Well, the service in here tends to be pretty damned slow, so we’ve got time,” Kian returned.

Maya smiled. He was quick. Witty. She liked that.

Just then, their server showed up. A young man, full of bright smiles and eagerness to share the specials. Maya and Kian listened politely and when he was done, both ordered burgers and fries.

“Oh. And give us your artichoke dip and chips to start,” Kian said, just as the young man was about to walk away. “I’m not taking any chances we’re done with our meal before you tell me the whole complicated story,” he explained once they were alone again.

“I’m only sharing all this because you’re practically family,” Maya said, giving him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, yeah. Spill it,” Kian said with the dismissive wave of a hand.

“You’re very pushy,” Maya told him, rolling her eyes.

But she loved it. The truth was, it usually took a lot of effort for a person to pull her out of herself. Her personal life was a little too messy for sharing casual confidences. She still had some hesitation about doing so now. But the hardest part she had already shared. Now, all she would be doing was to fill in the details.

She opened her mouth to speak but Kian held up a hand.

“Wait,” he said. “I bet I know.”

Maya twisted her lips to one side and squinted. “You think so?”

“You’re in a lavender marriage,” he said.

Despite herself, Maya smiled.

“So that’s it? Keith is gay?”

She nodded.

“But—” Kian’s eyes ran across her features, reading her face. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” Maya said, shrugging. “Of course there’s more. Isn’t there always?”

Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be changed from one form to another. You’ve heard this, I’m sure. Heat becomes motion. Light becomes warmth. A candle burns and the wax pools, the flame jumps, the air stirs. Nothing ever truly vanishes.

What if love is like that? We think of it as a finite resource. Something we can spend. Something we can lose. A person leaves and we say we “lost” them. A friendship fades and we say it “died”. But what if love follows the same rule as everything else in the universe? What if it only changes shape?

Over the past year, I’ve watched this happen. Some relationships have deepened into something I can lean fully against. Others have cooled to a distant hum. And one—for the moment—sits in a lovely middle place, growing, deepening, not entirely settled.

Yet I’ve never felt richer. Never felt more surrounded.

There are people in my life who have become architecture.

One is a friend I communicate with almost every day. Not because we have to. We really don’t. And not because anything particularly urgent demands it. For whatever reason, the line of connection between us always seems to stay open and neither of us feels the need any longer to question why that is. That love feels like a river stone; worn smooth by intermittent friction, misunderstandings, breach and repair. And rendered beautiful by moments of pure ease, calm and inexplicable synchronicity. Over time, that friendship has become a foundation we each return to. I can put my whole weight on it. I confidently rest in love and trust that it is solid even though its contours sometimes shift.

Despite the growing pains, I don’t question that love. It’s a relationship that defies every category I try to pin on it. Not romantic. But also, not merely platonic. Deeper than friendship in some ways, much more confusing in others. It doesn’t require maintenance in an anxious way any longer. Now, it’s simply a solid base beneath my feet, and one that when everything else tilts, holds steady. Over time I’ve come to gain some of my stability from its constancy.

Other friendships have gone cold.

Not with drama. Not with a fight. Just the slow drift of two people walking in different directions. I think of one in particular—someone I used to speak to at least weekly. We shared a certain frequency. A shorthand. Then her life seemed to get narrower. Mine got louder. The miscommunication more strident and personal. The calls became monthly, then seasonal. Now I see her name in my contacts and feel a small ache. Not grief exactly. But the sense of a season having passed us both by.

I used to read this as failure. As something I did wrong. As proof that I’m hard to keep. But I’ve begun to see it differently. That love didn’t disappear. It changed temperature. It became something I can look back on with clarity rather than reach for with desperation, or a sense of impending loss. The lessons from that friendship—the things she taught me about boundaries, about humor, about walking away cleanly—those are still inside me. The energy just moved. It condensed into wisdom. Into a clearer picture of what I need. And the ways I may not be able to give her what she needs.

That’s not loss. It’s transformation.

Then there is the third shape. The newest. Still forming, still coming into view but moving blindingly fast. Challenging. Exciting. Delicious. Ripe with promise and discovery, filled with laughter and friendship and the awkwardnesses and delights of a new lover. Scary and occasionally tumultuous while we figure each other out; neither of us wanting to be the first to say the word that will catapult us into a new place.

Around this new love, the energy is intense, frenetic and constant. It demands, it exhausts, it rejuvenates. Sometimes, the need to release is there too. Not to let it go but to say, ‘whatever this is, I release you from needing to be anything specific.’ I’ve begun to trust that it will find its form.

The struggle itself is part of the love. That’s the strange thing. The wrestling. The not-knowing. The fact that I keep showing up to the question and haven’t walked away or shut down—that is a form of devotion. The energy between us matters to me. That’s why it sometimes hurts. That’s why it sometimes confuses.

In this new love, I’m learning to hold both. The want and the release. The hope and the surrender.

Here’s what I think: love can’t be destroyed. It only moves, and changes shape.

The love from the friendships that drifted? It became something else. It became the ability to recognize when someone is not for me. It became the patience to let people go without resentment. It became space. And space, I am learning, is not emptiness. It is room for something new to arrive.

And the love from the solid one—the foundation—that love multiplies. It doesn’t get used up. The more I lean on it, the stronger it gets. The more I give back, the more there is to give, and to get.

The love that’s still forming? It’s become part of my internal universe. I carry his voice. His laugh. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. That doesn’t disappear if we stop speaking. That won’t evaporate if he chooses someone else. It becomes memory. It becomes energy I will repurpose for every connection after.

I’m surrounded. Not because everyone stayed. Not because every relationship looks the way I wanted. But because the energy is still here. It’s in the lessons. It’s in the ache. It’s in the phone calls and the silences. I’m trying to trust the physics of it.

The shapes will keep changing. People will come closer and pull away. Some will hover in that strange middle place forever, never quite becoming anything I can define. That’s not a problem to solve. It’s a condition to accept.

Love is not a thing you keep. It’s a force you move through. It passes between people. It lingers. It stays in the body. I look at the people in my life now—the close ones, the far ones, the ones in-between. I feel the weight of their energy in the various shapes of love.

And because of that, I’m rich.

About ‘Forty-Nothing’:
Lucas Weir belongs in an entirely different chapter of Norah’s life. He always has—ever since she first spotted him at her book signing, years ago. There was no denying the spark between them, but he was nearly a decade younger, and she told herself that settled it. Of course nothing could come of it. Of course. Except it did. What began as friendship grew into something that reshaped her without her permission, and so she did the only thing that felt possible: she ran.

Years pass. Time does what time does—reshapes, reorders, leaves its marks. When their paths cross again, they are nearly strangers to the people they once were. Norah carries her damage quietly; she has long since stopped expecting the world to be kind. Lucas is a single father, steady in ways he never used to be. He has not forgotten Norah. And this time, he is not letting her go.

COMING SOON.

The complete novel will be free to paid subscribers. If you’d like to catch up on the first 11 chapters, check them out here.

The Last Resort Artist Retreat is the antithesis of that, and positions rest as regenerative not just of the body but for the creative spirit as well. For Wine with Writers™, Jacinta, Lily and I invited a handful of authors—the incomparable Beverly Jenkins, Danielle Allen, Rae Lyse, Tiffany L. Warren, Takerra Allen, Joan Vassar, and Angelia Vernon Menchan—to experience the space for themselves for the weekend and to connect with just under 150 readers for a dinner, panel discussions, a wine reception and a half-day of loosely-scheduled opportunities to be in community on the property’s beautiful grounds. When hosting, you never know whether your party’s a success, but we got pretty good reviews from writers and readers alike. Now we’re looking ahead to 2027 which we hope will be just as special an experience. Stay tuned for news about that.

Isn’t it wild, that we’re already thinking about what 2027 will look like for the book world? We’re literally just past the halfway mark for 2026! But …here we are. So I thought I’d let you know what I’ve got planned otherwise. Both for what remains of this year and the first half of next. One big piece of news. You’ve helped me commit to completing ‘Forty-Nothing’ as a novel. This means that the serial chapters are at an end and the next time you see Luke and Norah, it will be in the pages of this completed book.

If you are a paid Substack subscriber, you will get the ebook OR paperback for free.

In other news, I will be back at Black Romance Book Fest in June 2027 and I couldn’t be more exited. Although the experience was overwhelming at times, it was a testament to the power of Black women readers, and their commitment to the stories that we writers toil over in isolation, often not even fully convinced that there’s someone who wants to read them.

Before the Fest, I’ll have other releases for you besides ‘Forty-Nothing’, including my collaboration with Allan Monteilh, my producer (aka ) and co-creator of the ‘Recall’ series. The second part of the series, ‘Pretense’ will be out very soon.

You can listen to the complete Prologue for ‘Pretense’ here.

We’re super-excited about not only this series, but about Allan’s new audio imprint, Dimly Lit which will bring you a lot more thrilling, suspenseful and spine-tingling stories in the future.

So … good things to come, including some new serials that I will begin here exclusively for Substack paid subscribers and finish with a novel or novella that those subscribers will get for free just as it goes on sale elsewhere.

All in all, it’s going to be an exciting next few months as I tie up some loose ends for stories and characters that you’ve been asking me about. The Last Resort Artist Retreat did its magic on me. I’m back, and ready to write.

Love + Light,

N.

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Chapter Nine

I CAN’T KEEP MY EYES off Luke’s boys. They’re very much like him, but also not. Some of their facial expressions are one-hundred-percent Luke, then I’ll see a flash of someone else in their features who I assume must be their mother. Running around and playing with Finn and Memphis, with baby Rive…

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He made an offhand comment about the presidential race that was not only precisely aligned with my own opinion, but funny as hell. It made me look up at him, and smile. He smiled back. The line was delivered with much more wit and humor than I could ever hope to have, and it was clever. Sometimes that’s all it takes to transform ‘a nice guy’ into a bona…

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I know it’s a provocative question, but seriously. I’m asking.

Let me start by acknowledging my bias: I don’t particularly enjoy IR romance that takes pains to label itself as such. I get that the labeling may arguably be necessary because we live in a race-conscious society; and: 1) some readers view that label tantamount to a trigger warning and defini…

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I don’t do a lot of book events. In fact, I try to avoid large public events at all costs. But every once in a while, one comes along that feels more like a cultural phenomenon and to refuse to participate would just be silly.

And Black Romance Book Fest is definitely a phenomenon.

When I first started publishing my work independently, I became part of w…

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You know that game people play where they imagine themselves living in a different era? It’s fun, but a tricky one if you’re Black. There are so many historical landmines to avoid—enslavement, Jim Crow … you know the list.

But I’ve always had a very specific time and place in mind: Harlem. Any time during the Harlem Renaissance. Imagine sitting in a lite…

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Find the Prologue and previous chapters here.

Chapter Seven

“ANY COMPLAINTS? CONCERNS?”

Dr. Maurier looks at me from over her glasses.

“None. Unless you count the growing of what feels like a full moustache above my upper lip.”

She looks at me levelly.

“I can’t see a thing,” she says.

“Not from there you can’t,” I laugh.

“Is there someone who gets closer than t…

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Find the Prologue and previous chapters here.

Chapter Six

THE SUMMER SKY HAS DARKENED and exploded into an unexpected thunderstorm. Rain is falling in sudden, heavy, noisy and dense sheets. I can’t remember whether I left the windows of my Jeep open a little, the way I sometimes do even when I have the air conditioner running. I don’t bother going to chec…

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Find the Prologue and first four chapters here.

Chapter Five

I GET NOTHING DONE FOR the entire afternoon. My body is humming and buzzing from having seen Luke and sat across from him in Roberta’s. My mind is whirling in a dozen directions and can’t settle anywhere or on any one thing.

He asked me whether I didn’t want to know him anymore, and it almost mad…

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Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

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And Chapter One is here.

I STARTED CALLING AND TEXTING Norah right away after we first met at her book signing. She was living in the city, and I was about to graduate. She always answered my texts, but we didn’t talk on the phone as often as I wanted. Whenever I called her, she was busy, or just about to go to a meeting. Or only had a few minutes to talk. I don’t know, maybe that was her way of keeping her distance or something.

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1

LUKE’S MOTHER NEVER LIKED ME. It wasn’t an active dislike that resulted in dirty looks and snide comments, but the quiet, brooding kind, the kind that made her a little less than warm, and just barely on the right side of cordial whenever we met. In retrospect, I guess I understand her feelings a little more now than I did back then.

Today, though, as I practically collide with her shopping cart, she looks not only surprised to see me, but dare I say, pleased? Her eyes brighten and she straightens up. Rounding the cart, she comes toward me with open arms.

“Norah?”

I smile and open my arms so I can comfortably receive her embrace. But I don’t completely lean into the hug. It’s awkward. I haven’t seen her in years, and when I saw her last, we weren’t on hugging terms.

“Mrs. Weir,” I say, dragging the ‘r’ in her name to connote surprise. “Oh my gosh. It’s so good to see you.”

She holds me at arms’ length and looks me over.

“My goodness,” she says, “you look exactly the same.”

I laugh, not sure what to make of that.

I can’t say I ever had a good handle on what she thought of my appearance, per se. But the totality of me, I’m sure she at times used to wish would disappear.

Today, I am wearing denim shorts, frayed at the hems, classic Adidas and a faded gray Gnarls Barkley concert t-shirt from a dog’s age ago. I can’t imagine I look like anything other than what I am—a woman who rushed out on a Thursday afternoon to do some long overdue shopping for staples, who is unbothered about whom she may run into and what they might think of her.

“And you … look well,” I say, opening my eyes a little wider, as if I can’t believe just how well she looks.

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Prologue

I WOKE UP THAT MORNING with a stomachache, thinking it was just nervousness at the upcoming day, but when I shoved back the sheets to get out of bed, it was to find a bright crimson stain beneath me. Not only were the sheets ruined, so were my favorite blue striped cotton pajamas. I liked those pajamas. They were my favorites because they fit like men’s pajamas, loose and billowy and comfortable even during the hot nights when my window-unit only provided a weak breeze.

I stripped naked, crumpled the pajama pants in a heap and did the same with the sheets, deciding that none of it could be saved. The mattress cover had spared the mattress, thank goodness.

My inner thighs were sticky, as I was still bleeding, and now, as if waiting for me to awaken so they could really show out, the cramps began.

No, I moaned. No. Please, not today. No.

I showered, took more painkillers than I probably should have and then carefully inserted a tampon. Even putting it in was close to excruciating. My abdomen was tight and hot, and I could feel my womb twisting itself into a knot, holding and then releasing. I waited for the release to complete each step of my getting ready.

Release. Stand.

Release. Put on underwear.

Release. Walk to closet.

Release. Step into skirt.

And so on.

It took me longer than usual, but about as long as it always took to get ready to leave the house on the first day of my period.

Normally, on the first day I would call in if I were going to work, but I wasn’t going to work. I had a book signing at Westview College.

I was a twenty-nine-year-old newly published author, and I had just hit the literary lottery. My book, Kismet came at the right time, or hit the right chord. I’m still not sure which. Suddenly I was doing morning television, visiting book clubs and giving talks at colleges and universities.

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My new collab with my producer & co-writer @Your1stVoice is OUT NOW on Amazon as an ebook AND audio-short.

🎧 ‘RECALL’ is 90 minutes of suspense. Perfect for your commute. No full-book commitment, just a gripping ride. This is just the start. More audio-shorts coming from our new venture, Dimly Lit (mystery, suspense, thriller, maybe even paranormal).

Ava…

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