Cocky

Chapter 7 Hold That

seven

hold that.

Jabari.

We pull up to Zaza’s building, and I hop out before he finishes parking with the toolbox in hand.

I hover for a second.

“Thanks?” he says for me.

“Yeah, that,” I nod. “And um…”

Solace smirks. “Want me to ask my connect about a car?”

This is rock bottom.

I blow out a breath. “And a spot. Love my mum, but if she wakes me up for Bible study one more time…”

He winces sympathetically. “Say less. Gimme a week, I’ll get it sorted. And you can just return the toolbox whenever.”

I nod. “Good.”

He smirks, “Is that considered a nicety?”

I slam the door in his face before he gets another joke off. But I’m smiling as he drives off; just a little.

When I get to the entrance, I text Za again.

Me: You sure she’s expecting me?

Big head lil’ sis: Probably not. Just knock a bit.

Me: cba.

Big head lil’ sis: Pleasee.. I’m sure she’s awake. At least I hope so.

By the time I reach 3C, I can hear music faintly through the door. Something old-school and soulful. I hope that meant Francine is up.

I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again, louder this time, then lean my shoulder against the doorframe.

Three minutes of this and nothing.

I’m about to leave when I hear slow, dragging footsteps from inside, followed by a muffled voice.

The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there she is.

Frankie blinks at me, squinting against the light, half-asleep.

Who the hell could sleep with all this noise?

Her scarf’s crooked, her oversized moomoo is slipping off one shoulder, and there’s a pillow crease stamped across her cheek.

For a second, I forget how to speak.

“Morning,” she says, voice rough, not even pretending to be polite.

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

She yawns. “So? It’s morning somewhere.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. “You really just gonna let me stand out here forever?”

She doesn’t move for like a while, tilting her head and sizing me. Then steps aside, holding the door open with a lazy wave.

“Seriously?”

She shrugs. “I like having you wait on me.”

I walk in, shaking my head. “You don’t make it easy for people, do you?”

The apartment’s warm and quiet. Smells like vanilla and incense. I glance around at the scattered sketch pads and the infamous table still sitting in the middle of the room like a dying animal.

Then I look back at Frankie.

No makeup. Just bare skin and sleepy green eyes. And for the first time I notice the tiny tattoo below her temple, stretched just slightly by her full cheeks.

I gesture toward it. “You kill somebody?”

She blinks, confused. “What?”

I nod toward her face. “The tattoo. You in a gang now?”

Her lips twitch, and she puts a hand to her cheek, pretending to be horrified. “Is that what it means?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a real comedian.”

“It was a crescent moon,” she says, rubbing it lightly. “When I gained weight, it stretched a bit.”

I smirk. “Well. At least nobody will fuck with you.”

That earns me a half-smile.

I set the toolbox down near the couch, glancing up at her again. “How’d you end up all tattooed up anyway? You used to hate needles.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You remember that?”

“‘Course I do.”

For a second, her expression softens as I catch her off guard. Then she shrugs, hiding it.

“Guess I just… got tired of feeling plain.” She eyes me carefully. “You don’t like it, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you do?”

I nod, slower this time. “I love it, actually. I could never mark my skin like that, but it looks good on you.”

Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. She just looks at me eyes half-lidded.

Then she mutters, “You’re full of shit.”

I tilt my head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “No, you’re full of shit. Acting like you don’t know me.”

Her brow lifts, calm and unbothered. “Am I? Or is it just not possible for you to comprehend that I don’t remember you?”

I lean in a little, voice low, steady. “You remember me, Francine. I know you do.”

She stares at me. “Really?”

Then she turns and walks off like the conversation’s over.

I follow, because I don’t trust her not to slam her room door in my face.

Not gonna lie, I shouldn’t be staring, but it’s hard not to. Her ass moves under that loose moomoo with every step. I can’t even see her shape fully, but my imagination fills in the blanks just fine.

When we get closer to her room, my eyes start watering.

That’s when it hits me, it’s not incense burning. It’s bud—potent, sticky weed.

She picks up a half-lit joint from somewhere inside, sticks it between her lips, and sparks it again. The lighter flares, the paper crackles, and she exhales.

I prop my elbows against her room’s doorframe, hunching over her, watching the smoke curl past her cheek.

“Took me a minute,” I say, casual as hell, “but I remembered—what was it again? Chinaza’s birthday party.”

She doesn’t even flinch. Just drags deep and blows out slowly while retaining eye contact. At this point, I’m in her face, towering over her, and she does nothing. My body takes up the entirety of her doorframe, and the girl doesn’t even bat an eye.

I keep talking anyway because silence with her is punishment. Besides, I know what will get her talking.

“We kissed in the broom closet. I know you remember that.”

“I don’t.” She shrugs. Her voice is steady, like she’s bored with me already. Then she nods toward the busted table. “There’s the table. Do what you gotta do. I’m going to bed.”

No.. no.. no!

“You are lying! You have to be!”

She ashes the blunt somewhere inside her room, and I’m tempted to look over her head and take a peek inside.

“Jabari, I am not in the mood for your outbursts today. I’m tired. I was up all night. You said you came to fix the table, then fix. The. Table.”

And she turns away from me.

“Wait.”

“What?”

I don’t want her to leave yet, but I can’t force her to stay, so…

“Can you… help me?” I ask.

At least I can keep her around until I get to the bottom of her behavior and attitude.

“No.” She’s so cold.

“Come on. I need someone to hold the thing up at least.”

She squints through the smoke like I’m the dumbest man alive. “Look here, big man. I ain’t got time for your foolishness.”

“It won’t take long.”

“You got twenty minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“Ten.”

“Okay, okay! Twenty is good.”

“Great.” She exhales, slouches onto the couch, and flicks ash into another nearby tray. It seems like she has them all over the place. “And no talking. Your voice is grating, not gonna lie.”

I scoff, dropping down to start sorting the busted legs and screws. This carries on for a minute before I speak up again.

“You’re jarring, you know that?”

“Didn’t I say no talking?”

I ignore her and continue, “Like—how do you look someone dead in the eye and lie so deeply? It’s maddening.”

“What lie?”

“About the kiss.” I glance up, meeting her eyes. “I know you remember it. All my friends teased me about it for weeks.”

My voice softens a little without me meaning to. “Conley kept saying I looked sick after. I was nervous as hell.”

She snorts, loud and derisive. “You weren’t nervous.”

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “It’s hard to believe I get nervous, but it’s true.”

She leans forward, elbows on knees, smoke still curling around her.

“No. You weren’t sick because you were nervous. You were sick because you thought I was poisonous with my ‘witchcraft’.” She flicks the joint against the tray. “And your friends weren’t teasing you about the kiss. They were laughing because you made a big joke about it.”

I stop mid-screw, staring at the splintered wood. “I—”

“Not a pleasant memory, is it?”

“I didn’t—wait—” I push up from the floor, jaw tightening. “I knew you remembered me!”

Her eyes meet mine. “I do.”

“So why all the theatrics?” I snap before I can stop myself. “You had me losing my fucking mind over this.”

She studies me for a long while. Then, quietly:

“I don’t know why you’re so invested in me remembering. They’re not good memories, are they?”

I feel my stomach twist with something I don’t want to name.

“You weren’t a nightmare, but you were an ass,” she continues. “I know I was annoying too ‘cause I had a crush and no filter, but you treated me like trash.”

I rub the back of my neck. My chest feels tight. “Yeah, well. I was a kid, get me? Didn’t know how to handle my emotions back then. You didn’t deserve that.”

Then, I said something I rarely do.

“Sorry.”

She exhales another cloud of smoke. “Yeah, well. You can hold that.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

“Are you dumb? I said hold it.”

“Francine.”

“Jabari.”

“I said I was sorry. I was a kid.”

“I was a kid too, innit?” she snaps. “Doesn’t excuse being a fucking prick.”

“I know, but I—”

“And you’re not really sorry, are you? Cause if you were, you wouldn’t call me Jelly.”

“Wait. What’s that got to do—”

“Just hurry up and finish the table, big man.” She cut me off. “I’ve got other shit to do.”

I’m speechless.

“Right,” I mutter.

The air between us goes still. Just the soft scrape of screws and the slow drag of her joint.

Every now and then, I look up. She’s not even watching me, just staring into nothingness, smoke haloing her head.

And I realize… she remembers more than the kiss.

She remembers everything.

And for the first time, I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

I force my focus on the table instead of her. Maybe the quicker I do this, the quicker we both can be released from this awkwardness. But unfortunately, it turns out I really do need her help.

“Can you hold this up?” I ask.

She gets up from the couch and does it without complaint or comment. The wood creaks a little between us, but she’s steady.

With her this close, I can smell her perfume or whatever that is. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? Maybe both. It’s sweet but smoky, and it’s fucking clouding up my head.

I go quiet for a while, trying to focus on the table, but my eyes wander down.

Bare feet.

Black nail polish.