Za spots me first. “Oh, look who decided to show up.”
“Figured I’d spare a few minutes,” I reply.
Frankie doesn’t look at me right away. She sips her drink, then finally turns to face me. Even though we woke up in the same bed, and I saw her less than twenty minutes ago, it was like I haven’t seen her in years.
We hover for half a second too long.
“Frankie,” I greet awkwardly.
“Jabari,” she replies softly. “Congrats.”
“Thank you.”
I step forward and pull her into a half hug.
It’s supposed to be friendly.
It is not.
My hands settle at her waist out of habit. She stiffens slightly, then adjusts so it looks casual. Her cheek brushes my chest.
We don’t pull away immediately.
I lower my mouth close to her ear. “Ready to tell them?”
Her fingers tighten in the back of my shirt.
“Not yet,” she murmurs. “Finish making your rounds.”
I lean back slightly, searching her face.
“You sure?”
“Bari,” she warns quietly.
Alright.
I nod once.
“Cool,” I say out loud, stepping back like nothing happened.
Za looks between us, suspicious but not fully clocking it.
“You two are being weird,” she says.
“We’re always weird,” we reply together.
Mum appears beside us with a tray stacked with puff-puff and small plates of jollof. “Frankie, have you eaten? Don’t let him distract you from food.”
“I’ve eaten, Aunty,” Frankie says sweetly.
I try not to react to how natural she looks here. How she ignores the noise and the judgemental aunties and the chaos. How easy it would be to just reach for her hand and end this secrecy now, killing all hope for the women auctioning off their daughters’ hands in marriage.
But she asked me to wait. So I wait.
“Chinaza,” Mum greets.
Za straightens a little. “Mummy.”
