I wait.
Ten minutes.
Then twenty.
I ease her hand off me gently and sit up in the dark. My chest feels tight, as if I’ve swallowed something I can’t digest.
I could stay.
I could climb back under the covers and forget Jabari flying back for me. I could choose her right now.
But that wouldn’t be fair either.
Because while I do love her, I care about him also and pretending it isn’t true won’t make it disappear.
In the kitchen, I open my freezer and fish out the sorrel pops from mum.
I take all three.
If I’m breaking up with him, (Yes I’m referring to it as a break up) I shouldn’t be bringing him comfort food from my mother. But I know how his face lights up when he tastes them, so I wrap them carefully, put them in my bag and slip out of the flat, leaving a note on the kitchen counter that says:Staying at Mum’s. Love you.
One last lie.
The night air hits my face and I breathe in deep, trying to clear my head.
I’m ending it.
When he lands, I’ll tell him:
This is wrong and I can’t keep pretending it isn’t just because it feels good.
On the walkto his place, I stop at the late shop on the corner and grab some things his place needs. By the time I reach his building and let myself in, my resolve feels strong again.
It’s quiet inside and his flat still smells like him. I stand in the kitchen for a moment, unloading my haul from the shops onto the counter.
You are not here to play house, I remind myself. You are here to say goodbye.
I put the sorrel pops in his freezer gently, arranging them neatly.
Then I open his cupboards.
He barely has anything.
Of course he doesn’t because he lives like someone who expects to leave at any moment which makes sense with his career.
I pull out rice and seasoning. Thankfully, I picked up chicken because for such a big man, his house never has protein.
I cook. And while I don’t rush it my chest aches the entire time.
This is the last meal I’ll cook in his kitchen. This is the last time I’ll move around his space like this.
I wipe down the counters when I’m done. I plate the food and cover it so it stays warm.
Then I open the flour and sugar.
Cookies.
He eats them like he’s never experienced sugar before. I mix the dough slowly, hands steady even though my thoughts are not.
