Chapter 28 Homewrecker
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 off Twilight might help.”
She flips me off, “Shut up and leave me alone.”
I ignore that. “Am I Edward or Jacob?”
“Of course you’re Edward, glittery prick.”
Hm.
I’m not even mad at that.
“I’ll make you tea,” I say.
“I don’t want your tea.”
“Then I’ll cook.”
“I don’t want your food.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You say that every morning.”
She turns away from me again.
“Can you just—” her voice cracks and she swallows it down. “Can you just let me be miserable in peace?”
I sit on the edge of the bed anyway. “No.”
“Of course you won’t,” she lets out a hollow laugh. “You’re okay so who cares how I feel.”
I rub a hand over my face. “You think I’m okay?”
That gets her to turn to me and I notice her eyes are red. “... I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want this to happen.”
“I know.”
“I really was gonna say it that day.”
I nod once.
“I know.”
She stares at me like she wants me to argue with her. Like she wants me to defend us. To fight for the narrative that we’re worth the damage.
Instead I say nothing.
Because the truth is we both knew it would end like this.
We just hoped it wouldn’t.
“Frankie. As crazy as it sounds it needed to happen. Was the way it got out ideal? No. But if this is what had to happen for us—”
She looks at me sharply. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t romanticise this. Don’t try to paint us in any glory. It’s not some epic love story. It’s messy, and selfish, and ugly.”
“It’s also real. Very real.”
She laughs again, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah, well. Real got me kicked out of my flat.”
“You can stay here for as long as you want.”
She looks at me for a long time and I can see the argument she’s fighting with herself not to start. Then, she gets out of bed and walks into the bathroom. The shower turns on a minute later.
I listen to the water hit tile and try not to think about the fact that this is the longest five days of my life.
And we’re nowhere near the end of it. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees and try not to brace for whatever version of her walks back out.
When the water cuts, I don’t move.
She comes out in one of my T-shirts and fresh shorts, towel rubbing through her hair aggressively like she’s trying to scrub the week off her scalp.
She doesn’t look at me at first.
She goes to the dresser.
Opens it.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“Do you resent me?” I ask.
She freezes then she finally looks at me. Her eyes aren’t angry, they’re tired.
“You want me to say it?” she asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“Fine. I resent you.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
Her eyebrows knit together like she expected me to argue.
“Okay?” she repeats. “Don’t just take it!”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Defend yourself. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not. Still,” I push. “Tell me what’s on your mind. Please.”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Then make me get it.”
She sighs before she runs a hand through her damp hair.
“If you had just been a fling, I could’ve chosen her.
If you had just been a distraction, I could’ve walked away and hated you and moved on.
I had her for twenty years before you. Twenty.
Years. And you came in and in months I couldn’t even answer her when she asked me to choose.
It feels like you came in and rearranged my entire life.
My loyalties. My priorities. My future. And now everything is on fire and I’m standing here with nothing stable except you. And that terrifies me.”
I step closer.
“Why?”
“Because what if you leave?”
“I’m not—”
She holds up a hand. “Don’t promise.”
I shut up and her breathing evens out slowly.
“I hate that I love you this much,” she admits. “So yes Jabari. I resent you. Happy now?”
“You’re not angry at me, Jelly. You’re angry at the situation.”
“I’m angry that you’re not easier to leave,” she mutters.
The honesty almost makes me smile. “I do have that quality, don’t I?”
That middle finger came up quickly.
I brushed it off and continued. “I didn’t plan to fall in love with you either, you know. You think I don’t resent you too?”
Her eyes flicker with confusion. “Me? For what?”
“For being impossible.”
She frowns.
“For blaming everything on me. And… for making me love someone so deeply who never fully chooses me.”
“Jabari…”
Before she can say more, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I freeze.
Frankie watches my face carefully.
“What?”
Big head lil’ sis: Dinner tonight at Mum’s. I have an announcement to make.
“Za. She wants everyone at Mum and Dad’s tonight,” I say slowly.
Frankie’s body tenses instantly. “About…?”
“She didn’t say but you should come,”
Her head snaps up. “No.”
“Frankie—”
“It’s your family thing.”
“You are my—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in quickly. “She asked for family, Bari.”
“And you’re—”
“I don’t want to ambush her. I don’t want her walking in and seeing me there and thinking we’re forcing something. This needs to be on her terms, okay? Not ours.”
I nod. “You think she’s going to invite you anytime soon?”
She doesn’t answer that because she doesn’t know.
“Just go,” she says. “Hear what she has to say.”
“And you’ll be fine here?”
“I’ve been fine for five days.”
That’s not an answer but it’s the only one she’s offering. I study her face. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay.” I guess we’re not talking about our earlier conversation. “See you later then.”
My parent’s house feels different the second I step through the door.
Not physically, because the same framed graduation photos are still lined up along the hallway. The same patterned rug sits slightly crooked near the stairs because Dad refuses to replace it. But something underneath all of that feels stretched thin.
Dad’s in the front, leaning against the counter with a tea towel over his shoulder, pretending to check something on his phone while very obviously listening for my footsteps. Mum is arranging plates on the dining table with unnecessary precision, moving them half an inch at a time.
And Za…
Za is already seated in the living room with her back straight and hands folded neatly in her lap.
She looks up when I enter and our eyes meet.
“You came,” she says evenly.
“Of course I did.”
She nods once and looks away, like that’s all she expected and all she intends to get.
Mum walks in with a tray of glasses and sets it down a little harder than necessary.
“Sit down, everyone,” she says, and the tone makes it clear this is less dinner and more tribunal.
I sit opposite Za. Dad takes the armchair.
Mum remains standing for a moment, arms folded, watching all of us like she’s about to moderate a debate.
Za clears her throat.
“I asked you all here because I wanted to tell you something properly,” she begins, her voice calm but carrying something steely underneath it.
I brace myself without meaning to.
“I’m going on tour with the production,” she announces.
The words don’t just sit in the room— they divide it.
“A tour? For how long?” Dad asks carefully.
“Six months to start,” Za replies. Her posture hasn’t changed, but I can see the way her fingers are pressing into each other. “Manchester first. Then Birmingham. Possibly Dublin if funding clears.”
“Six months?” Mum repeats, and there’s something sharp behind it. “You’ll be away for half a year?”
“It’s a national tour,” Za says evenly. “That’s how these things work.”
“You didn’t tell us it was this serious.”
“I didn’t want to say anything until contracts were signed. I got the part and that was enough, now I want to see how far I can take this.”
Mum sits down properly now. “So you’re leaving.”
Za’s jaw tightens. “Why do you have to make it sound like abandonment?”
“Because it is,” Mum snaps. “You’re running off the minute things in this house become uncomfortable.”
“That’s not fair,” Za shoots back immediately. “I’ve been working toward this type of opportunity for years.”
“Is that so?” Mum asks. “Well timing matters and so does intent.”
Za stiffens. “I am not leaving because of anything involving this family.”
“Then why so soon?”
“Because this is my career!” she explodes, composure finally cracking. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that I might want something outside of this house and away from you?”
Mum folds her arms. “And what exactly is wrong with this house?”