Chapter Seventeen Imani
‘When you said restaurant,’ Asher starts, plopping down onto one of the bright red, uncomfortable plastic seats opposite me, ‘this isn’t really what I was expecting.’
I grin and push a flimsy cardboard box filled with greasy chips and several even greasier pieces of chicken between us. ‘What’s the problem? This is, by every definition of the word, a restaurant.’
I shrug and dip one of my chips into the small mountain of ketchup the owner kindly squirted into the corner of the box. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never had London’s finest culinary offering before?’
Asher thinks for a moment. ‘Not since I was about sixteen.’
‘Then you’re missing out,’ I say before digging into the meal, and I mean it too.
London’s small army of chicken and chip shops can be fairly hit or miss, but in my humble opinion, Top Fry is the best of the best. There’s something about the way the chips come out of the deep fryer, perfectly golden and equal parts crispy on the outside and fluffy inside, and the moistness of the mysteriously seasoned chicken, which keeps me coming back for more.
It’s not the kind of place you’d find boasting a Michelin star, but it’s just as good as any white tablecloth restaurant in my opinion.
And, as a bonus, it’s not the kind of place you’d typically find anyone from our usual social group frequenting.
Meaning it’s a perfectly safe place to be out in public with Asher right now.
He picks up a handful of chips, dips them into the small mountain of mayonnaise on the opposite side of the box, and then chews thoughtfully for a few seconds.
‘Okay,’ he says once he’s finished and already reaching for a piece of chicken, ‘that was pretty good.’
‘See?’ I say, tearing into my own thigh. ‘You’ve got to trust me. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.’
Asher hums noncommittally as he takes a bite of the chicken, but I see the way his shoulders seem to slacken just a little as he chews.
It’s subtle and I wonder if it were anyone else sitting opposite him right now, whether they’d notice or if I’ve just become attuned to him in a way I’d never expected to.
It’s a strange thought, realising that maybe I’m seeing him in a way other people don’t.
I watch the way he eats and take note of the way he pauses after the first bite, or how his jaw shifts slightly to the left when he chews, or even the faint line that appears between his brows when he’s concentrating on a flavour and the way it smooths out the moment he decides he likes it.
I wonder how many other people have noticed these things about him.
Probably not many. The thought both saddens me and makes me feel a strange sense of pride at being one of the few who has got to know him like this.
Asher suddenly catches me staring and lifts a brow. ‘Is there something on my face?’
‘No,’ I say quickly, shaking my head as I reach for another chip. ‘I was just thinking.’
‘About?’
‘You look…’ I click my tongue, fumbling around for the right word. ‘Lighter? From earlier, I mean. When I called you, you looked…’ I pull a face. ‘You know?’
Asher had looked stricken when he answered my call and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m extremely glad he no longer looks like he’s about five seconds away from breaking down.
‘Yeah,’ he murmurs.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask.
‘Not really.’ He lets out a deep breath. ‘But I probably should, shouldn’t I?’
I shrug. ‘It might help, and you don’t have to get specific.’
He doesn’t say anything right away, and I almost think he’s not going to and will just clam up, but then he sighs one more time and leans back as far as he can in his chair. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘Tired?’
‘Of never being enough.’
‘For who?’
‘For everyone.’ He says it so casually, the corners of his mouth lifting up into a sad excuse for a smile, like if he says it with enough detachment, it won’t hurt as much.
He might be able to fool himself, but he can’t fool me.
I feel the hurt beneath his words, in all that he’s not saying, settle heavy in my chest.
I look at his hands instead of his face because it’s easier that way; if I keep looking at his eyes, I don’t know what I’ll say. He’s fiddling with the edge of the box, tearing little pieces off here and there as a way to distract himself from what he’s saying.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I hear myself say.
I think the sound he makes in response is supposed to be a laugh, but it comes out dry and bitter, devoid of any warmth or humour. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do,’ I insist. I let myself look at him again. He looks tired in a way a good night’s sleep couldn’t possibly fix. ‘And I also know that you don’t talk like that unless someone’s made you feel it for a very long time.’
He doesn’t dispute me and that somehow makes it worse.
‘It’s like…’ he says after a moment, staring past me to look at the wall behind me. ‘If I’m not useful, I don’t really have a place anywhere. Me alone isn’t enough – I’m just worth whatever I can do for people in the moment.’
My heart just about breaks. I want to lean across this plastic table, squeeze his hands and let him know that he’s more than enough for me.
‘Even if you don’t ever do anything for another soul for the rest of your life,’ I say, ‘you’re still enough. More than enough.’
He finally looks at me then and there’s something raw in his expression, like he desperately wants to believe me but doesn’t trust himself to.
I give into my urges and reach across the table to rest my hand over his. His jaw tightens and I think he’s going to pull away from me, but instead his fingers curl slightly under mine.
‘You don’t have to be enough for anyone but yourself. Anyone else is a bonus and they should be so lucky that you’re in their lives.’
I know I am.
The thought hits me without warning and I realise that with devastating certainty, I am glad that Asher is in my life. These last few months have been chaotic and downright insane and I’m not sure I would’ve survived if I hadn’t had Asher by my side.
He doesn’t say anything after that; just nods once and then goes back to picking at the food.
My impromptu pep talk hasn’t solved anything, I know that, but as he reaches back into the box for a wing, his shoulders look a little less tense and the expression on his face is softer, more Asher-like than before, and that feels like a win.
‘I can’t believe you insisted on paying,’ I snort as Asher and I spill out of Top Fry and into the busy high street it sits on.
‘Never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman.’
‘It was ￡4.’
‘Like I said,’ Asher says, as he steps across me to position himself so he’s walking on the outside of the pavement, closest to the cars, ‘I’m a gentleman.’
I laugh at that and, after a second, Asher starts laughing too.
We fall into step beside each other, bobbing and weaving along the high street.
Given the emotional start to this unplanned meet-up, I’d almost forgotten that the last time I saw Asher we were pressed up against my kitchen counter.
Now we’re walking side by side, his arm brushing against mine every so often, and I’m reminded of what it felt like to kiss him.
It’s startling how quickly and vividly it comes back to me.
The way his hands had hesitated for just a second at my waist, the warmth of his mouth – soft at first and then not – like he was afraid of wanting too much and then gave in anyway.
I can almost feel it again, the quiet intensity of it, the way the world narrowed down to just the two of us and the space between our bodies.
My stomach flips at the thought of it.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, more to keep myself from doing something stupid than because I’m cold.
The high street is loud around us with cars rushing past, music leaking from shops, people brushing by in hurried groups, but somehow there’s still this bubble around the two of us that feels strangely private.
Asher’s arm brushes mine again, this time lingering just a fraction longer than before. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw relaxed, shoulders loose, like he’s not painfully aware of the space between us shrinking and expanding with every step.
Or maybe he is.
I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. About my kitchen. About how close we’d been. About how nothing has really been resolved since then; we’ve just quietly set it aside in favour of more pressing concerns. Like the state Asher was in just an hour ago and—
‘Oh shit,’ I say suddenly. ‘I forgot about France.’ I’m not entirely sure how I managed to forget about the thing that’s been dominating my thoughts since I left my father’s office this morning, but I suppose seeing Asher so close to breaking down took precedence in my mind and shoved all thoughts of ruining our fathers’ plan to the very bottom of my priorities list.
‘Oh right,’ Asher says, blinking dumbfoundedly like he forgot as well. ‘I was wondering when I got that text…’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a sheepish grin. ‘I wanted to follow up sooner, but I got pulled in about a million different directions today. Long story short, thanks to our little show last night, my father’s planning on announcing us to his shareholders and board soon.
He wanted to do it next week, actually.’
Asher looks alarmed. ‘Next week?’
‘Mhm,’ I hum. Some of my earlier irritation about this whole mess starts to dampen my mood.
‘Luckily I managed to convince him that we’re still too volatile for a hard launch and he agreed.
Unfortunately, he thinks we still need to make one final show of being a solid couple before he can take it to the board. ’
Asher’s silent for a moment, and then he says, the realisation dawning on him, ‘And he thinks you coming to the hotel launch next week is the perfect place for us to put on a show?’
I nod glumly. ‘Looks like it.’
Asher comes to an abrupt halt, turns to me, and grins. ‘Well then. Let’s give him a show.’