They lay down on top of the covers with the suitcase open at their feet like a third presence. Nia rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart, ordinary and stubborn.
"When you visit in March," she said, "I want you to see the lagoon. Not as my project. As a place. I want you to meet Afua, who will probably terrify you. I want one evening where we are not principals or fellows — just us, eating something fried, arguing about nothing important."
"I can do that," Xavier said. "And when you come back through New York midyear for the midpoint report, I want one evening where we look at this apartment and ask if it still fits. No sticky notes on the answer."
"Deal."
They did not sleep much. In the dark, Nia said, "Solomon asked me today if I thought Threshold would still be ours when I got back." Xavier said, "What did you tell him." Nia said, "I told him Threshold was never a possession. It was a practice. Practices change hands and keep their names. Like marriages, if you're lucky." Xavier kissed her hair. "We are not lucky yet," he said. "We are working. Working might be better."
XVI.
At the airport, Solomon insisted on coming. He said principals did not ship co-founders through security alone like packages. Ifeoma came too, in scrubs under her coat, smelling of hospital soap and pepper. Kwame texted a photo of the bent rim with the caption Don't freeze. Move your feet. Bertrand sent nothing that morning, which Nia understood as respect.
They hugged in turns. Solomon said, "Call when you land. Not for permission. For the org chart of my nerves." Ifeoma said, "Eat. Sleep. Do not perform diaspora for anyone, including yourself." Xavier waited until last. He held Nia's face in both hands, braids brushed back from her cheeks, and looked at her as if memorizing was a civic duty.
"No sticky notes," he said.
"No sticky notes," she answered.
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I have not forgiven you all the way."
"I know. I am still going. I am still yours in the ways we keep choosing."
He kissed her once, briefly, in the middle of a river of travelers who did not care. Then she walked toward the scanners with her carry-on and did not look back until the turn, because looking back too long was how people missed their own flights. When she did look, Xavier raised one hand, not waving so much as witnessing. Solomon stood beside him with his arms crossed, already doing math in his head. Ifeoma wiped her eyes angrily, as if tears had broken a rule.
Nia's plane lifted over Jamaica Bay. She pressed her forehead to the window and let Brooklyn shrink into a diagram. Somewhere below, the loft's east windows would be filling with morning. Somewhere below, a yellow pad of sticky notes sat in a desk drawer, unused. She did not miss the lying. She missed, already, the particular sound of Xavier's keys in their door.
XVII.
Accra did not welcome her like a story. It welcomed her like a city: heat, traffic, negotiations, Afua Mensah's handshake that lasted exactly as long as respect required and not a second into sentiment.