Dara stared out of her office window at the elementary school playground below, the sounds of children laughing muffled by thick glass. It was recess, but the joy didn’t reach her heart the way it used to. Her desk was cluttered with half-signed permission slips and curriculum updates, but none of it held her attention.
The image of LC at the hotel door replayed on a loop in her mind. The silk-robed woman. His bare chest. The audacity.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to push the image away. Her baby kicked, as if reminding her: You’ve got someone else to fight for now.
“Ms. Nix?” Her secretary peeked into the office. “There’s a Genevieve Washington here to see you.”
Dara nodded. “Send her in.”
Genevieve stepped inside, holding a brown paper bag and two cups of something warm. “Thought you could use some company and carbs.”
“You know me too well,” Dara said, motioning her in.
Genevieve set the bag down and pulled out two buttery croissants and a pair of decaf lattes. “I figured if I can’t make the pain go away, at least I can soften it with French pastry.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the smell of cinnamon and coffee weaving between them.
“I officially put the house up for sale this morning,” Dara said finally. “Realtor’s coming by Saturday.”
Genevieve stilled. “You sure about that?”
“Every corner reminds me of him. Of what I thought we were building.” She sipped her latte. “I need something that’s mine again. Something that isn’t haunted.”
Genevieve nodded. “Then I’ll be there. Every step of the way.”
—
Later that week, Genevieve stood by her locker at the hospital, pulling on her scrubs with a heavy heart. The fallout with Malik had left her raw, but Dara’s situation had shifted her focus.
Her phone buzzed. Malik.
She stared at the screen, tempted to ignore it—but curiosity won.
“Hello?”
“Gen, please. Just give me five minutes to explain.”
She walked into the break room, shutting the door. “Explain what? That you were lying the entire time?”
“I never meant for it to go this far. Olivia and I—we’re not okay. We haven’t been for a long time.”
Genevieve clenched her jaw. “Then why the hell are you still with her?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought,” she whispered, the pain returning. “Don’t call me again.”
She hung up and leaned against the counter, chest heaving.
Enough was enough.
—
Saturday morning brought a chill that hinted at Denver’s approaching winter. Dara wrapped herself in a gray cardigan and greeted the realtor, a warm Black woman named Trisha, who immediately put her at ease.
They walked through the house together, Trisha taking notes as Dara pointed out small updates and shared memories that still clung to the walls.
“Lots of good bones here,” Trisha said, smiling. “But I understand the need for something new.”
Genevieve arrived soon after, carrying a small folder. “I made a list of potential neighborhoods and properties. Thought we could start dreaming a little.”
As the realtor left, the two friends sat at the dining table, flipping through listings and circling favorites.
“You know what I want?” Dara said, tapping a photo of a cozy bungalow near City Park. “A front porch swing. Somewhere peaceful to rock my baby to sleep.”
Genevieve’s eyes softened. “Then we’ll get you that. Porch swing and all.”
—
Dara hadn’t told many people yet. The wedding was off. LC was out. Her life had unraveled—but she was still having a baby, and that deserved to be celebrated.
So when her cousin Janelle asked if they were still throwing the shower, Dara hesitated.
“We’ll still do it,” she said finally. “But it’s not about him anymore. It’s about me—and this little one.”
Genevieve took the reins, turning the event into something meaningful. The shower became a celebration of Dara’s strength, resilience, and the beauty of new beginnings.
Friends and family gathered in a decorated community center, where the theme was “Bloom Where You’re Planted.” Flowers, books, and affirmations filled the space.
“Single doesn’t mean alone,” Janelle toasted. “Dara is proof of that.”
Dara wiped away tears as Genevieve stood behind her, gently rubbing her back.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Dara whispered.
“Start by knowing you never have to do this alone,” Genevieve replied.
—
That night, as they cleaned up, Dara found a card tucked into a gift bag. Her heart dropped at the familiar handwriting.
LC.
She hesitated, then opened it.
> Dara,
I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I messed up, and I lost the best thing that ever happened to me. But I will always love you and our child. If there’s any way to make this right, I’ll wait.
—LC
She handed the note to Genevieve.
“Still trying to make himself the victim,” Genevieve muttered. “Classic.”
Dara crumpled the note. “He made his choices. And now, I’m making mine.”
—
Weeks passed. The house sold faster than expected. Dara moved into a quiet duplex on the east side, a place with lots of light and just enough space for her and the baby.
But one night, she found herself in the nursery, folding tiny clothes alone. The reality of being a single mother hit her like a freight train.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered into the silence.
Moments later, Genevieve walked in, holding two bowls of ice cream.
“You can. And you will.”
Dara looked at her, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. “Aren’t you tired of being my support system?”
Genevieve chuckled. “Never. Because you’ve been mine, too. Through the Malik mess, through the loneliness. You’re the reason I’m not curled up in some dark corner of the ER.”
They sat on the floor, eating in silence, comforted by each other’s presence.
—
One afternoon, Genevieve met a man at a farmers market. His name was Isaiah—tall, gentle, with a soft voice and a warm smile. He ran a nonprofit that offered free cooking classes to teens.
They talked for over an hour, and when she mentioned Dara’s situation, he listened without judgment.
“I’ve seen a lot of strong women start again,” he said. “Sometimes all they need is someone to remind them they still deserve joy.”
Genevieve told Dara about him later.
“You should go out with him,” Dara encouraged. “You deserve joy, too.”
“Maybe,” Genevieve said, smiling. “Maybe we both do.”
—
LC showed up at Dara’s job two weeks later.
She was leaving the building when she saw him standing by her car, holding a bouquet of sunflowers.
“I just want to talk.”
She stared at him, feeling the old ache rise up. But there was steel in her spine now.
“There’s nothing left to say, LC. I’ve made peace with your absence. I’m not angry anymore. But I am done.”
He looked stricken, but she didn’t flinch.
“I hope you figure yourself out. But not at the cost of my peace.”
She walked past him, each step a declaration of her worth.
—
On a crisp December morning, snow dusted the sidewalks as Genevieve helped Dara hang curtains in the baby’s room.
“This feels right,” Dara said, placing a framed quote on the shelf: ‘Still I Rise.’
The doorbell rang. A delivery—an anonymous package wrapped in brown paper.
Inside was a plush teddy bear and a note: For the child of the strongest woman I know.
Genevieve smiled. “Who do you think sent it?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. What matters is who’s here now.”
They stood by the window, watching the snow fall in silence.
“I think we’re going to be okay,” Dara said softly.
Genevieve nodded. “More than okay. We’re going to thrive.”
—
End of Part 2
Thee Juju Aura 