twenty-eight
homewrecker
Jabari.
“Get out of bed, Francine.”
There’s no response.
The curtains are still drawn. The room smells stale. The takeaway containers from two nights ago are still on the desk. And the same movie she’s been watching on repeat blasts through the room.
It’s been five days.
The mood in this house reflects every bit of that tension. It’s like a land mine in here.
“Get out of bed now,” I push.
Frankie rolls over, pulling the duvet over her head. “Leave me the fuck alone, Jabari.”
Her voice is hoarse. She hasn’t been sleeping properly, I know because I haven’t either. I stand at the edge of the bed and look at her. Hair a fucking mess, mascara stains faint under her eyes and my hoodie swallows her whole.
It’s no longer charming. It’s tragic and I can’t take it anymore.
She hasn’t gone back to the flat. She hasn’t been to work. She hasn’t called Za. She hasn’t answered her mum either. She’s been hiding here. With me.
Which feels ironic considering the entire problem is that she wouldn’t choose me.
“You’ve been in this bed for three days,” I say.
“And?” she mutters from under the covers.
“And this isn’t helping.”
She throws the duvet down and glares at me. “Nothing is helping.”
Ugh.
That little obvious observation pisses me off. Because she’s right.
Training has been hell. The press won’t stop calling about the upcoming game. My mum has been ringing non-stop trying to “clear the air” after the party. Za hasn’t responded to a single message I’ve sent.
And Frankie…
Fucking Frankie.
Frankie moves around this flat like she’s in exile.
“Turning offTwilightmight help.”
She flips me off, “Shut up and leave me alone.”
I ignore that. “Am IEdwardorJacob?”
“Of course you’reEdward, glittery prick.”
Hm.
I’m not even mad at that.
