Homesick (Lesbian)

CHAPTER 1: New York

***Hello there! You're looking great if I may say so.

So! Here it is. The sequel to Homecoming, and as per usual don't expect happy go lucky. Ain't happening, but I poured my heart and soul into this one, so I do hope you enjoy it. Because this is the most important book I'm working on right now, as of this moment this is the only book I'm going to be uploading. the reason is that I want to be able to finish the book before April arrived. Anyway, I will be uploading once a week, every Saturday or Sunday, so make sure to check it out. Thanks for everything guys.

Enjoy.***

I think it was past eight PM when I arrived at JFK International Airport. It was a long, boring flight from Lenberg, Oregon to New York City on a Tuesday night. Not to mention that annoying little girl who sat behind me and thought 'You know what would be funny? If I kicked this woman's seat the whole freaking flight!' Yeah, kid. Hilarious.

I was standing just outside the airport looking left and right for my ride and staring at my watch now and then to confirm that yes, I had been waiting for almost twenty minutes. Of course, he's late. He's always late. He's never been early to anything in his entire life. But when I saw a black sedan approaching and parking in front of me as he lowered his window, my anger washed away. He was wearing that wide, cocky smile he always got when he knew you were angry with him, but he wasn't in trouble. Not really.

"Hello there," he said in his playboy voice.

He got out of the back of the car and gave me a huge hug. He smelled like he always smells; expensive cologne and Cuban cigars.

He pulled me away and said, "Oh, my God. It's so good to see you. You look great."

I smiled and replied, "Thanks, you look great, too, even if you were half an hour late."

"Twenty minutes, actually. And I'm really sorry, I got out of work just now and traffic was awful. Here, give me your bag."

He took my duffle bag from my hand, opened the back door for me, and after I was inside the car, he closed it. He put my duffle bag on the truck and sat next to me.

"Diego, Upper West Side," he said.

Diego, the chauffeur, nodded and stepped on the accelerator.

I'm sorry, am I going too fast? I guess I just assumed that you already know who I am or at least, you've heard about me. So I guess I thought there's no need for me to tell you a lot of boring details that you're probably not interested in. Or maybe you are. I'm normally good at reading people but through something like this is very hard to figure out what you're thinking while you read this.

Or maybe you've never heard of me before. In which case, my name is Faye. I'm thirty-two years old and I'm an artist. Whenever I say that some people assume I'm a musician. I'm not, I'm a painter. A visual artist is what I've heard some people call it.

There, that's pretty much it. There's not a lot to me apart from what I've just told you. Or probably there is. 

I'm not an idiot. I know there's a huge elephant in the room, but what you need to understand is that the elephant... is dead to me, and I am NOT talking about it.

I arrived in New York on a Tuesday night with the hope of getting the chance to impress some big shot in the industry and get my first solo exhibition. It meant a lot to me to be able to do something completely by myself at that point in my life, for reasons that I hope I won't have to explain. And I want to make something clear, though; those reasons are absolutely STUPID. But back then, I thought they were legitimate reasons. And maybe at the time, they were. It would make me feel independent, self-empowered. Feel... me.