Chapter 3
three
we all grow up.
Frankie.
There’s something beautiful about the way Jabari McKingsley’s face crumbled when I told him I didn’t remember him.
Almost poetic.
Artistic.
Idiotic.
Because only an idiot would believe me.
Of course, I remember him.
How could I not?
He hasn’t changed much in the time since he left. Taller, sure. Broader, of course.
Sharper round the edges.
But still handsome. And the arrogance? Still dripping from every pore.
When I walked through that door and caught his stare, I knew instantly: Jabari McKingsley has never been ignored in his life.
His parents respect him way more than they do Zaza. People scream his name in stadiums. Reporters track his every move. The whole of England was practically buzzing with his return.
He expects recognition—demands it even.
But me? I was denying him the one thing he thought was guaranteed.
And oh, the look on his face.
Cracks forming, pride wobbling like I’d just kicked the ball clean out from under him.
Fucking priceless.
I open my eyes from prayer, fighting a grin.
Lord, please forgive me for the mental anguish I have caused this man in the last hour.
Actually. Even if you don’t forgive me, Lord. I’d gladly go to hell with a smile if I could replay that look on his face over and over again.
And he’s still watching me!
He doesn’t realize I can feel it every time. I’ve clocked him already, my side gaze catching a little twitch when I don’t give him the reaction he wants.
Part of me wants to keep it going just to see how long before he snaps. But another part of me wants to know why it bothers him so much.
Because the truth is, I remember too much.
I remember him being nice to me, then switching up in later years.
I remember him laughing at me while I tagged along with Zaza.
I remember the way he mocked my eyes and called them witchy.
I remember him being my first kiss years ago on a dare.
I even remember him scrubbing his lips after and gagging so the rest of the group laughed.
It’s crazy how the depth of his memory only brings up the parts that paint him in his best light and bathe him in glory like we shared highlights.
Unfortunately for both of us, that isn’t the case.
So yeah. While I remember, I don’t feel like giving him the satisfaction.
“So, Frankie—” He’s said my name at least five times in the last hour. “—what do you do for work?”
Hm.
A question about me that doesn’t orbit planet Jabari McKingsley for once?
Fascinating. I wonder where this will lead.
“I own and operate an indie game development studio,” I say, spearing a piece of yam.
His brows lift. “Video games?”
My eyes narrow. “Yes. Video games.”
He leans back, nodding slowly, as if weighing the worth of my answer, or my career. The thought of him deciding on whether to engage in conversation with me based on my job irritates the hell out of me, and I fight to keep a straight face. My career is a very touchy subject for me.
“Hmm. I’m not really into games… but I’m sure they’ll be making one of me someday, so we may work together in the future.”
I roll my eyes internally.
Of course.
Any glimpse of interest in me boomerangs right back to him. Why am I not surprised? But luckily, I see the perfect opportunity to turn this around.
“Oh, really? You must be really popular then. What do you do for work?”
The table freezes. Forks pause mid-air. Even their Mum’s spoon hovers above the pot. They all stare at me like I’ve just cursed in church.
Jabari blinks. “Okay. Now I know you’re full of shit.”
“Jabari!” Mrs. Mac snaps.
I widen my eyes, all innocence and confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“No way in hell you don’t know what I do,” he states. “Everyone knows what I do.”
“I don’t really keep up with pop culture,” I reply evenly. “Do you dance like Za? You’ve got the legs for it.”
I hear Zaza snort and cover it by clearing her throat.
His jaw flexes. “Francine.”
Not the government name.
He leans forward, eyes pinning me. “I know for a fact Zaza told you I play football, professionally.”
I shrug. “Did she? We don’t really talk about you much. I knew she had a brother who was sent to Nigeria when you lot were younger, but that’s about it. Sorry if I offended you.”
His mouth twitches. “You ain’t sorry.”
I raise both brows, genuinely surprised by the bluntness. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been testing my patience all evening,” he says, voice dropping low. “And I’m sick of it.”
oop.
“I’m testing you?” I scoff. “You’re the one forcing me to recall who you are magically. The only people who ask, ‘Do you know who I am?’ more than you have memory loss.”
His eyes narrow. “Well, excuse me if I find the girl who used to bury her nose in my dirty briefs suddenly forgettin’ me suspicious.”
“Jabari,” Their mum warns again.
I freeze for just half a second, but he clocks it.
“In truth,” he goes on, “it doesn’t even matter if you don’t remember me. Why would I care if someone like you remembers me?”
Someone like me, huh?
“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 be delicious.
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.
We make it to the front door before Mrs. Mac calls out, “Don’t forget we have church in the morning!”
Zaza groans. “Mum…”
“And I don’t want to see either of you girls stumbling in half-drunk. Understood?”
Zaza rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath. I catch Jabari smirk, finally breaking his broody mood.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say sweetly, just to play along.
Mrs. Mac beams. “Good girl. Unlike some people.”
She throws a pointed look at Zaza.
As we step outside, the cool night air hits me, and I can still feel his gaze lingering.
It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
And yet… I don’t hate it.
“And did you see how Mum didn’t even say anything when he got the ice lolly?” Zaza drops her bag beside her with a huff.
Benny’s is half-full as the usual Friday night crowd spills into booths with chatter, and the music is low how I like it.
Zaza and I slide into our usual spot by the window, menus already ignored because we both know what we’ll order.
A pint, chips, and a Caesar salad.
I share her frustration as I drag out, “Yesss. And I bet he only got one because she told you no.”
Za’s eyes widen. “Exactly! He took one and got no lecture or anything. Meanwhile, I so much as look at a can of Coke and I’m getting a sermon.”
I snort.
“I will say, I sort of expected him to come back with a much heavier accent. He sounds almost the same as us.”
“That’s ‘cause he’s been media-trained,” she props her hand up on her cheek. “Plus it’s not like he was actually hanging around locals.”
My eyebrows knit together. “He wasn’t?”
“Girl no! Did I not tell you?”
“Chinaza,” I say seriously. “I know I was joking earlier but I’ve really forgotten most of your brother's lore.”
“Oh! Well let me tell you!” She leans in like she’s trading country secrets. “So basically, he was giving a lot of problems in school—”
“Doing?”
“Girl, I don’t know!” She’s so animated as she chats her brother's business. “Anyway. My parents decided to step in and remove him. Daddy thought a prep school would be best but Mommy was hell bent on sending him to Nigeria.”
“Makes sense, she’s from there.”