Chapter 16 Don’t Look Back In Anger.
sixteen
don’t look back in anger.
Frankie.
I’m dreaming.
I know I am, because everything feels too soft around the edges, like the world’s been wrapped in cotton candy.
We’re younger.
The sun is brighter.
The grass is scratchier.
Zaza is running around barefoot, shouting instructions she doesn’t actually understand, and Jabari is acting like a coach even though he’s barely taller than us.
“Again!” he yells, kicking the ball back toward us. “You lot are meant to be defenders.”
“We’re eight,” I shout back.
“That’s no excuse,” he says seriously, wiping sweat off his forehead. “Big players start early.”
He’s training while we play, or maybe we’re training while he plays.
I’m not sure.
All I know is he keeps running drills, sprinting past us, telling us to pass better, kick harder, try again.
I try to keep up, but I don’t see the ball coming until it’s too late. Jabari cuts in fast, foot catching mine, and suddenly I’m going down too.
We hit the ground in a tangle.
He lands on top of me knocking out of both of us.
Zaza gasps.
“Oh my gosh!” she shrieks. “You’ve killed her! I’m telling Mum!”
And then she’s gone, sprinting back toward the house, leaving us alone in the grass.
Jabari freezes above me, eyes wide, panicked.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I should’ve been looking.”
He doesn’t move right away. He smells like soap powder and sweat.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
I nod.
He finally lets out a breath.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I guess I pushed you both too hard.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, desperate for him to think better of me.
“It’s just I gotta get better,” he pushes.
“You will,” I tell him. “You’re already good.”
“Not like the big kids.”
“You’ll get there.”
He looks in my eyes then, really looks at them, and something in my chest starts to flutter. I’m so self conscious about them.
When we play soccer together, it’s the only time he doesn’t point out how much they creep him out. I could already tell he’s thinking of something witty to say.
I wanna squeeze my eyes tight so he’d forget about me and go back to playing.
But I can’t. I’m frozen.
“Francine?”
I wanna crawl into a hole and die.
“Y-yes —Yeah?”
I wanna be wiped from existence.
“When I get older… and I play a big game,” he says carefully. “Would you come to it? Will you watch me play?”
My heart jumps. I…
“You want me to?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I wanna kiss him.
“Then I’ll come,” I whisper. “I promise.”
“Jabari!” Mum’s voice echoes from the house. “Get off her right now!”
But he’s still looking at me. Big brown eyes that match his sun kissed skin. Sweat prickled on his cheeks and running down to his chin as he smiles… at… me?
He’s smiling at me?
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
My eyes flutter open.
My room is quiet which is shocking because I’ve grown accustomed to waking up to the sounds of Za’s theater music as she rehearsed. Maybe she already left for rehearsal.
The silence of the house made me feel…uneasy. It made memories flood back to me.
Why was I thinking about that all of a sudden?
Of all the memories for my brain to drag up at this hour in the morning, it had to be that one.
Probably just lack of sleep.
I was up all night working and streaming, bouncing between bug fixes and chat messages until my eyes felt like sandpaper. Still, it was worth it.
￡15,000.
Who the hell donates fifteen grand in one go? Who even has that kind of money lying around to throw at some indie dev ranting about bad graphics and the rising price of RAM at midnight?
They hadn’t said much either, plus it was anonymous.
It makes my stomach twist, and not in a good way.
God, I hope I don’t have a stalker.
I don’t have time for that shit right now.
I roll onto my side, then my back, then my stomach again. So much stress.
Not enough sleep. Please let me sleep.
God? Jah?
Haile Selassie?
Someone, anyone, please let me sleep!
Nothing.
A cold shower could help. So do a quick one.
Still nothing.
Okay. Fine.
If I’m not sleeping, I might as well try to fix the other problem. Frustratingly, I reach for my rose from the bedside table and slide it under the covers. Maybe it will help.
It doesn’t.
Because the fucking thing’s dead.
“Oh my days!” I groan into the pillow. “Traitor.”
It’s really no surprise the thing is dead ‘cause I’ve been using it nonstop since Jabari made me a squirter. I’ve been chasing that high all week.
I sigh, fling the rose back onto the bedside table, and grab my phone instead. Sleep clearly isn’t happening. And neither, apparently, is anything else. So, if my body wants attention, it can get it the normal way.
From strangers with low emotional stakes and even lower expectations.
Dating app it is.
The screen lights up my dark room, harsh and bright against the curtains that haven’t been opened in days. My thumb starts moving on autopilot—swipe, pause, swipe again—faces blurring into one another.
Gym selfies. Fishing pictures. Men leaning on cars that clearly aren’t theirs.
This is bleak but I scroll. Swipe. Scroll some more.
So many men. So little effort.
First match pops up almost instantly:
Him: What’s your body count?
I don’t even pause.
Me: wats ur yearly salary?
Unmatched.
Bless.
Next.
This one has a gym selfie as his first picture and a quote about “grind culture” in his bio. Already exhausting.
Him: full body pic?
I snort.
Me: show me ur hairline first.
Unmatched.
Next.
Next one sends a blurry picture of something that looks like it was taken with a DS.
Next one calls me babe after three messages.
I roll onto my back, phone held above my face, thumb flicking through profiles like I’m flipping through a very depressing catalogue.
Why is it so hard to find a man who’s just leng and quiet?
My phone buzzes.
A new match.
I stare at the name. Not what I expected. Or maybe who.
Which is terrifying because I don’t know what I was expecting from him. Should I apologize for kicking him out so abruptly or just let it go?
I’m sure he’s over it by now. And if not, I have my dating apps so who cares about Jabari Mckingsley?
I type a flirty opener to… Hugh G. Package? —seriously?— then delete it. I type something sarcastic, delete that too. Everything feels wrong.
I drop the phone onto my chest and groan.
This is ridiculous.
All I want is a distraction.
And yet I have the best distraction an orgasm can buy at my finger tips.
Frankie no! Remember Za!
She’s already on edge because her brother isn’t coming around. No need to make it more complicated. But my thumb drifts toward my messages again before I can stop it.
I lock the screen.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Unlock.
Francine. Show some resolve. You kick him out your flat for Christ sake.
My contacts slide past, and I tap.
Me: you up?
Jankro Jabari : it’s 12 in the afternoon so yes. i & most people are up and have been for hours.
Me: omge forget i asked fucker
Jankro Jabari : soz, just been up from 5 so I’m snappy.
Jankro Jabari : that and we haven’t really been speaking to each other.
Jankro Jabari : wat do u need?
I roll onto my side, biting my lip, staring at the blinking cursor.
This was such a bad idea.
Me: nvm.
Jankro Jabari : Francine u obviously texted me for something… wat’s up?
This is such a bad idea.
But… it happened before and Za doesn’t know. So… one more time wouldn’t hurt. Right?
I think my period’s coming soon cause I’m ovulating like a motherfucker.
Me: come over…
The reply takes forever and I’m literally biting my nails.
Jankro Jabari : wish i could Jelly but I’m at a match in Wales.
My chest sinks.
Me: fine then. Fuck off.
Jankro Jabari : just like that ?
Me: exactly like that ur useless to me.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Jankro Jabari : stay
Jankro Jabari : talk to me.
Jankro Jabari : I’ll sent u something
I squint at the screen.
Me: send me wat?
Jankro Jabari : a video of me.
Me: for wat?
A minute later, my phone buzzes with a new notification.
He really did send me a video.
Me: wats this then?
Jankro Jabari : watch the video Francine.
Me: fine.
I hesitate, heart thumping, then tap it.
The video loads, the light from the screen flickering across the ceiling. He’s striking it on camera! Fuck. But Still! A few seconds in and —
Me: u ain’t even moaning in it so wtf is the point.
Jankro Jabari : im in a locker room filled with bare man i cant be loud.
Me: USELESS. i gon find someone else. Bye.
His response is immediate, urgent.
Jankro Jabari : i’m coming over.
Jankro Jabari : & there better not be a fucker in ur bed.
I stare at the screen, pulse racing, torn between irritation and a very inconvenient thrill.
Me: ur literally in another country.
Jankro Jabari : flight aint that long.
Jankro Jabari : don’t move.
I laugh, he’s absolutely lost the plot.
I drop the phone onto the bed beside me and stare up at the ceiling, hands folded over my stomach like I’m trying to physically hold myself still.
My phone buzzes again.
Jankro Jabari : I’m serious, Frankie.
Jankro Jabari : I’ll come straight 2 u after the match.
I should shut this down. I should say no. I should absolutely not encourage this man to cross borders because I’m bored and horny.
But oh well.
I roll onto my side, pull the duvet up to my chin, and type:
Me: do wat u want.
And I lock the phone before he replies.
My heart is racing now, adrenaline fizzing under my skin, sleep officially impossible. I lie there listening to the quiet of my flat, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound which is the hum of the fridge, a car passing outside, my own breathing.
I picture him reading that message. The way his jaw probably tightens. He’s mad and I know it. He hates the idea of me sleeping with anyone else. But was the anger enough to make him board a plane?