“Don’t be a dickhead,” she mutters.
“I’m being honest.”
She folds her arms. I glance at her profile in the dim light from the dashboard.
“You nervous?” I ask.
“Yes,” she side-eyes me. “You’re not?”
“I’ll handle it,” I reply.
“You’ll handle it,” she repeats dryly. “We are so fucked.”
I pull into the shop car park and we sit there for a second before getting out.
“Francine,” I say, “Whatever happens, we’re still in this together. Okay?"
She hesitates then nods.
“Together,” she agrees.
But when she opens the door and steps out, I can still see the doubt in her shoulders.
“Why areyou buying plantain like you’re feeding a whole damn planet?”
She doesn’t even look at me. She’s crouched slightly, inspecting each one.
“Why are you counting my plantain, blud? Is it your money?”
“Itismy money,” I reply, one hand on the trolley.
“And?” She reaches for another one. “Move, let me pick my plantain in peace.”
“You’ve picked seven?—”
“—EIGHT. And I’ll pick nine if you keep talking.” She drops another one into the trolley with attitude.
I stare at the pile. “Francine. We do not need this much.”
“We do,” she says firmly. “Because you—” she pokes my chest “—eat like you’ve never seen food before.”
“I’m an active professional athlete.”
“You’re greedy,” she corrects then moves on to the yams, still muttering under her breath.
I push the trolley behind her, watching her arse.
That’s when I notice a group of girls at the end of the aisle.
I feel it before I hear it.
“Oh my God… that’s him,” they whisper. Then one of them nudges the other forward.
Here we go.
“Excuse me,” she says, already smiling too wide. “Aren’t you Jabari McKingsley?”
Frankie freezes mid-reach.
