Chapter 12
twelve
what is this feeling?
Jabari.
“More senior than God!”
Mum cries through my car speakers. “That is what you think you are now, eh?”
“Mummy,” I say, easing the car into the lot outside the shops, “I was busy.”
“Busy!” she scoffs. “Too busy for church. Too busy for your mother. Too busy for God. Listen, my friend. When Judgment Day comes, I hope God is too busy for you—”
I tune her out because I’ve heard every possible version of this speech since I was twelve.
My focus drifts instead to last night.
To Frankie.
A warmth spreads through my chest before I even realize I’m smiling.
“Mummy,” I cut in gently when she pauses to breathe, “I hear you. I will call Pastor. I will apologize. Yes, ma. I love you too.”
She mutters something and ends the call.
Finally silence.
I sit for a second with both hands on the wheel.
My heart is surprisingly light, and my mind is clear.
Because I’m excited.
I’m actually excited to see her.
She panicked this morning, sure, but that’s expected. Especially after reality sets in and all the naughty things we did come with it.
She probably feels guilty for betraying Zaza, but it’s a minor issue.
All we gotta do is keep both our mouths shut.
Once I clear everything up with her and let her know I’m not trying to ruin her life, we’ll be fine.
Better than fine.
We’ll figure out… whatever this is.
Quietly.
Just us.
Her and me.
No one else needs to know.
I step out of the car, straighten my jacket, and glance at the storefronts ahead.
Yeah.
This is going to work.
I can feel it.
I pull the balaclava down, the knit sliding over my jaw, warm against my cheeks. Habit. It keeps attention off me and lets me move through places without every stranger thinking they deserve a picture.
The door chimes when I walk in.
Bright lights. Pop music. Too much perfume. Racks and racks of clothes. And right in the middle of it —
Zaza.
She spots me instantly and lights up like Christmas.
“Hey!” she calls, waving me over. “Perfect timing.”
My shoulders relax.
Frankie’s beside her, pretending to inspect a rack of sunglasses and pretending very badly.
Her stance’s too stiff, like she’s bracing for impact.
I stop a few feet away. No one speaks.
You could cut the tension and sell it by the pound.
Zaza claps once. “Okay. Let’s get this over with like mature, civilized adults.”
She gestures between us.
“Talk.”
I clear my throat.
Frankie keeps pretending to examine eyewear.
“Francine,” I start. “About the other day. I shouldn’t have said half the things I said. I was annoyed. And stupid. And I treated you like… like you were still that kid from back then instead of who you actually are now.”
I get a slow blink with no eye contact in response.
God.
Zaza nods like she’s watching a therapy session on TV.
“Keep going,” she says helpfully.
Why do we have to do this in front of her?
“Also,” I add, because apparently my mouth is committed to suffering, “I should’ve asked before I ate the stuff in the fridge. I’m sorry.”
Frankie exhales through her nose.
I rub the back of my neck.
Finally, she turns her head just enough to look at the floor between us.
“I forgive you, okay?”
We stand there, both of us awkward with Zaza watching, weirdly proud of herself.
“Now you,” she says, nudging Frankie lightly. “Say your part.”
Frankie sighs, and her voice comes out tight.
“I’m sorry too. I know I can get a little carried away with my outbursts, yeah? But I never should’ve taken it there, especially over food. I was being petty. And childish. And I get reactive when you push me.”
She shrugs like none of it matters, even though it clearly does.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
Zaza lights up.
“See? Look at that. Growth! I really love this for us! Now, I’m going to pay for my things. Nobody move. Nobody fight. I want peace when I come back, yeah?”
And she wanders off toward the tills, humming.
Leaving us in the awkwardness.
We stand there. Too close yet not close enough.
Frankie pretends to straighten a display again, and I take one step toward her.
She goes still.
This feels like the right moment.
I lean in, expose my lips, tilt her chin gently, and lower my head—
Her hand slams into my chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” she snaps.
I blink, gutted.
“Kissing the woman I fucked last night,” I say, straight-faced before I dig into my pocket and pull out the tube. “By the way, you left this over.”
She snatches the lipstick from me and her voice drops. “You can’t kiss me here. Or anywhere in fact.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Yeah,” she says sharply. “There is. I said it before that last night was a mistake. I don’t know why you think it’s okay to kiss me.”
My jaw clenches. “You serious right now?”
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” she says, arms folded tight. “Was I not clear in my text?”
“Obviously not,” I’m genuinely shocked. “Because I swear you were joking.”
Her brow pulls in. “Why would I joke about something like this?”
I laugh.
Is she serious?
“Because it’s me. You can’t seriously be talking about ending it with me.”
“I am.”
I laugh again, slower this time, disbelief more than anything.
“Come off it,” I shake my head. “Jelly, you really need to be more careful about who you give that pussy to.”
“I am,” she says calmly.
“No, you’re not. Because if you were, you’d know being with me isn’t temporary. I don’t just sling my dick around. If I lie with you, you’re mine. Point. blank.”
She blinks, then scoffs.
“You are delusional. It was one time, Jabari. A mistake. I regret it. I barely even remember anything. And it’s not happening again. Also—” she jabs a finger at my chest — “stop calling me Jelly.”
“Francine.” My voice drops. “You let the fucking loser pizza delivery guy hit, but now suddenly you’ve got standards with me? Me? Do you know who I am? Do you know how many women would—”
She cuts me off. “Oh, I know exactly who you are. And it changes nothing for me.”
Her voice is low.
“There’s one reason I slept with him,” she says. “I wanted to. That’s it. And I don’t want you. Not anymore. Now, if that bothers you so much, take it up with the women who wants to be in my position so badly. Make them deal with your whining.”
Oh.
And the real me wakes up. The hardened me.
The me that I thought I could put away when I was with her.
The one that stops caring about feelings and just aims to win.
So I straighten, and my smile goes cold.
“Right,” I say. “’Cause you’re so easy to deal with, yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Come again?”
“You heard me,” I say quietly. “You move like everyone’s meant to just put up with you, but you’re not exactly a walk in the park yourself. All you do is complain about everything and do shit you regret. You’re tapped, honestly.”
She lets out this slow, mocking laugh. “Oh, please. I’m tapped, but you thought we were ‘starting something’ just ’cause we slept together?”
“Nah,” I shoot back. “You’re tapped ’cause you’d rather mess with any random wasteman than someone actually on your level.”
“Psychoanalyzing me?” she cocks an eyebrow. “And what makes you think you’re anywhere near my level?”
“You’re right. I’m way above you,” I clarify. “And I’m not even talking career-wise. I’m talking in an emotional sense. You’re rubbish at handling your feelings. Soon as someone gets close, you hide behind sarcasm and that little superiority ‘I’m better than everyone’ act you’ve perfected.”
I hit a nerve, but she recovers fast.
“Funny,” she says, sweetly mean. “I was gonna say the same thing about you, except yours is worse. At least I know I’m fucked up. You strut around like God sent you personally, when really, you’re just a scared mummy’s boy that can’t hack not being adored.”
My jaw tightens.
She steps closer.
“You think confidence and rudeness are the same thing,” she goes on. “You bulldoze everyone, then act confused when they don’t clap for you. You’re not confident, Jabari. You’re draining.”
“And you’re lonely,” I say.
Her lips part.
I keep going.
“Loud. Opinionated. Always right. It’s jarring. You talk big, but there’s nothing backing it. Mad to me people still try with you.”
She scoffs.
“You’re just pressed, they do. No matter how little I give, yeah?
They still show up, begging for more. You included.
One night and you’re this heated? You wish you had that pull.
But nah, people stop trying with you the second the performance runs out,” she fires back.
“It must be exhausting. Every day, waking up every morning, needing applause just to feel like a person. But the act’s running thin, innit?
This whole ‘big-man’ persona. Beneath it, you’re just some boy who needs everyone to rate him, or he cracks. ”
We stare at each other.
I shake my head, half a laugh in my chest.
“You know what? I actually feel sorry for you.”
Her brows lift. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” I tilt my head. “How long do people put up with you? ’Til the attention dries up? ’Til they clock you can’t give nothing back? They disappear and you’re left with the same thing you started with.”
“What’s that then?”
“Self-loathing,” I say, simply. “And Zaza. Always Zaza. Your whole life hangs off her like she’s your emotional support. It’s really pathetic.”
That hits.
Her mouth tightens.
“You don’t have any other friends,” I go on.
“Or any other meaningful relationships, even. You’ve got people you keep at arm’s length ’cause letting anyone closer would mean they see the mess.
You’re slumpy, moody, always indoors, and always hiding behind work.
Then you wonder why you feel empty all the time. ”
Her lip quivers, but I keep pressing because I’m pissed, and that softer part of me she got last night has officially checked out.