Artistic.
Idiotic.
Because only an idiot would believe me.
Of course, I remember him.
How could I not?
He hasn’t changed much in the time since he left. Taller, sure. Broader, of course.
Sharper round the edges.
But still handsome. And the arrogance? Still dripping from every pore.
When I walked through that door and caught his stare, I knew instantly:Jabari McKingsley has never been ignored in his life.
His parents respect him way more than they do Zaza. People scream his name in stadiums. Reporters track his every move. The whole of England was practically buzzing with his return.
He expects recognition—demands it even.
But me? I was denying him the one thing he thought was guaranteed.
And oh, the look on his face.
Cracks forming, pride wobbling like I’d just kicked the ball clean out from under him.
Fucking priceless.
I open my eyes from prayer, fighting a grin.
Lord, please forgive me for the mental anguish I have caused this man in the last hour.
Actually. Even if you don’t forgive me, Lord. I’d gladly go to hell with a smile if I could replay that look on his face over and over again.
And he’s still watching me!
He doesn’t realize I can feel it every time. I’ve clocked him already, my side gaze catching a little twitch when I don’t give him the reaction he wants.
Part of me wants to keep it going just to see how long before he snaps. But another part of me wants to know why it bothers him so much.
Because the truth is, I remember too much.
I remember him being nice to me, then switching up in later years. I remember him laughing at me while I tagged along with Zaza. I remember the way he mocked my eyes and called them witchy. I remember him being my first kiss years ago on a dare. I even remember him scrubbing his lips after and gagging so the rest of the group laughed.
It’s crazy how the depth of his memory only brings up the parts that paint him in his best light and bathe him in glory like we shared highlights.
Unfortunately for both of us, that isn’t the case.
So yeah. While I remember, I don’t feel like giving him the satisfaction.
“So, Frankie—”He’s said my name at least five times in the last hour.“—what do you do for work?”
Hm.
A question about me that doesn’t orbit planet Jabari McKingsley for once?
Fascinating. I wonder where this will lead.
