“Jabari! Don’t say—” I hold my hand up to stop Za.
“You shouldn’t,” I smile. “But something tells me you will for a long time. A proper self-obsessed arsehole like you? You can’t stand the idea of not being the centre of attention at all times.”
He huffs a mean and humourless laugh. “Right, right. I’m sure you know loads about attention, huh, Miss Indie Game Developer?” His voice goes mocking-posh. “Word of advice? Standing out and being recognized isn’t always a bad thing.”
Now see, why is my job in it?
I lean in just in case I need to slap him. “The day I take career advice from a nigga who kicks balls around for money is the day I fling myself in front of the Tube.”
“Whatever you say,” he murmurs. “Jelly.”
I blink.
Visibly.
Viscerally.
That old, slanderous nickname dragged straight out of primary school and slapped across the table right next to the damn stew.
Before I can retaliate, Mrs. Mac’s voice slices through the tension.
“Enough. You two should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“He started it?—”
“She started it?—”
“You are both adults,” Mum snaps. “Apologize, and let’s try to salvage this evening.”
I fold my arms, fine if we’re performing, let’s perform.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice sugar-coated, “if I triggered something inside you that doesn’t like being forgotten. I didn’t know not knowing who you are would make you so mad.”
For a moment, his composure slips, and I fight like hell not to laugh. Then he pastes on a grin, weak and stretched thin, before returning to his plate and finally getting out of my business.
“No need to apologize. I’m sorry I yelled.”
I nod politely and turn back to my plate, smirking into my fork. Under the table, I pinch Zaza’s thigh.
She yelps softly, swats at me, but she’s grinning too.
The debrief at Benny’s after this is going to bedelicious.
The rest of dinner moves in this weird silence, punctuated by clinking cutlery and Aunty fussing over who needs more food. Nobody brings up Jabari’s little outburst again, but I can feel his stare drilling into me across the table.
Every time I glance up, he’s already watching, chewing slowly. It’s unnerving, but I’m not intimidated.
I talk with Zaza about hairstyles. I compliment Mum’s cooking. I even laugh too loudly at Dad’s dry little joke about Man United, which Jabari surprisingly was quiet about. I did it all while ignoring Jabari’s eyes on me.
By the time we’re done, I’m buzzing with satisfaction because he’s unsettled, and I can feel it.
We scrape plates, pack leftovers, and do the awkward dance of “no Aunty, let me help—no, no, you sit down.” When Zaza and I finally manage to wrestle the dishes away from her, Jabari’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching.
Always fucking watching.
“Ready?” Zaza nudges me once the kitchen’s clear.
“Yeah.” I sling my jumper over my head.
