Chapter 17 Dinner @ Benny’s.
seventeen
dinner @ benny’s.
Frankie.
“Look at this.”
I lift the book off the display set up in the middle of Smith’s. “Special edition.”
Za barely glances over. “We’ve already read it.”
“Yeah,” I say easily, “but that was on my Kindle. I need the physical copy as a reward.”
She snorts. “Sounds like empty capitalism to me.”
“Yeah,” I agree, turning the book over in my hands to look at the sprayed edges, “but it’s pretty.”
She shakes her head, already drifting toward another shelf as I add the new found to my already stacked pile.
I love our shopping dates and today feels especially good because Za loves book shopping. Or at least I thought she did.
I’m not so sure anymore, not after I notice the way her shoulders are a little too tense. The way she pauses like she’s debating whether to say something as she scans smut. I just flip through the pages of the next book as I wait for her to spit it out.
“Oh—by the way,” she says eventually. “Mum wants me to help her with something at church in the morning before the award ceremony. Is that cool?”
I look up. “Should be. I’ve got some things to take care of anyway. Just be home by six so we can start getting ready together.”
“Okay.” She nods.
Her voice is wrong.
I know that voice. I’ve known it since we were teenagers sneaking snacks into her room and whispering about people we’d never admit to liking. That voice means something’s eating at her.
I close the book. “What’s wrong?”
She exhales, long and tired. “My mother thinks it’s time I quit theatre and start taking up a bigger role in the church.”
I stare at her. She hasn’t really talked to me about her career these past few weeks. I’ve been busy myself with the awards coming up. Still, I want to make sure she’s good.
“You’re not gonna, are you?”
She doesn’t answer straight away, and my chest tightens.
“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “I really wanted Newsies. This is my third rejection on the West End. Maybe it’s time I get serious about other things.”
“Chinaza,” I coo softly, “your mum already had her life. She already made her choices. This is yours.”
She shrugs, but it’s weak and defensive. “At some point, wanting things doesn’t make them happen.”
“I know,” I agree. “But quitting definitely won’t make it happen.”
She looks at me then, eyes glassy in a way I hate. “What if this is just… the sign?”
I shake my head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. Rejection isn’t a sign to stop. It’s just part of the process. A horrible, unfair part, but still.”
She presses her lips together. “She keeps saying I’m wasting time. That I should be building something stable.”
“So what do you think theatre is?”
She laughs weakly. “According to my mother? A phase.”
“I asked what you think.”
Nothing.
Not even a shrug.
I sigh.
Look. I love Ms. Mckingsley. But the woman is a huge part of all of Zaza’s insecurities. Being around her drains Za in ways that make both of us miserable and all I can do is be encouraging because it’s not my place.
“You know what. You don’t have to answer that right now. Let’s just have fun today. Okay?”
Finally, a sigh.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she admits quietly.
She bumps my arm as reassurance and I’m struck—like I always am—by how much we’ve grown together. How many versions of ourselves we’ve watched each other become.
If she gives up on theatre, it won’t be fair to all the past versions of her that worked so hard to be there and it’ll be because someone convinced her she didn’t deserve to want more.
I swallow with guilt. “You don’t have to find out.”
She squeezes my hand once before pulling away, already wandering toward the next aisle.
“Anyway,” she calls back, “I see a shirtless man on a book cover, so I’m gonna go investigate that.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask.
We both look over.
Jabari is slouched in a chair near the magazines, long legs stretched out, flipping through a sports monthly.
His expression says bored through the balaclava.
“I’m not sure you should leave him unsupervised,” I add.
Za waves me off. “He’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”
She disappears down the aisle before I can argue. I watch her go, then glance back at him.
I sigh.
Might as well see what the idiot’s doing. It’s the least I could do. I mean—
We’ve been in each other’s bed consistently for the past two weeks so that feels earned.
Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Frankie! You’re a messy bitch! You said you would stop!”
Listen, I was planning on stopping. And I still do!
But… it’s been a long few weeks okay? He’s training for some big game and I’ve been gearing up for the game awards ceremony plus working on other projects that aren’t going the way I expected. So… whenever the pressure builds too high, we… help each other out. Very efficiently. And frequently.
Nothing too mad.
Besides, it’s just easier than finding someone new. We respect each other enough to not overwhelm our own careers by trying to be more than what we agreed to. I’d even dare to say we’re acquaintances now.
Which is how we’ve ended up here—on mine and Za’s monthly trip to Smiths, replenishing our physical media like it’s 2009. (We like to pretend streaming never existed).
I stop beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “If this magazine mentions ‘legacy’ one more time, I’m gonna kill myself.”
“Buy it, then,” I say. “You seem emotionally invested.”
“Frankie. You know I don’t give money to journalism.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m just shocked you know such big words.”
“Cute.” He glances up, one brow lifting. “What are you even doing over here?”
“Supervising,” I correct. “Za’s orders.”
A white lie.
“Mm.” He closes the magazine. “I feel safer already.”
I roll my eyes—but I don’t move away. I haven’t seen him in a day or two because of press conferences.
We talked on the phone like we did last night but finally seeing him in person feels comforting.
Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about it because Za’s with us. But what would I do if she wasn’t.
“How’s the build going?” He asks.
“Build?” I blink myself back to the conversation.
“Last night on the phone,” he manspreads so that I am standing directly between his legs. “You said you were working on it…”
Did I say that to him or on stream?
“Did I? I can't remember.”
His mouth flips in as if he misspoke but he quickly regathered. “I must’ve misheard you. It was pretty late at night.”
“Maybe I did say something, I mean I definitely worked on it last night. I fell asleep at my desk.”
“I know,” he grins. “You snore.”
My face screws up. “You stayed on the line with me?”
“Yup. Til your phone died.”
“Creep.”
His mouth jerks up under the fiber covering it.
“What’s that you’ve got there then?” Jabari asks, nodding toward the stack of books in my arms.
“Want a closer look?” I say.
Before he can answer properly, I step forward and drop the whole pile straight into his lap. The weight clearly surprises him; he lets out a short grunt as he catches them, arms tightening around the stack.
“Carry them for me?” I add, then turn away.
I walk off without waiting for his response, lips curling into a smile I don’t bother hiding when I hear him behind me, footsteps quick as he adjusts the books against his chest.
“At least say please.”
“Nah.”
“Yo,” he says, opening one as he walks. “They fucked this up proper. It’s backwards.”
I stop and turn around. He’s holding the book open, brow furrowed, genuinely confused.
It’s almost cute.
“No,” I say calmly. “It’s manga.”
He squints at me. “Man-what?”
“It’s Japanese,” I explain. “That’s how they print books there. Right to left.”
He waves it off, unimpressed. “Whatever.”
But he looks at it anyway, slower this time, eyes moving across the page. I watch him for a second longer than necessary.
“Any of this rubbish about football?” he asks.
“Actually,” I say, stepping closer, “there is.”
I take one book from the stack in his arms and hand it to him.
He reads the cover. “‘Blue Lock.’”
I gasp. “You can read?”
He flips me off without even looking up and starts flipping through it.
“This looks alright,” he mutters. “I play better though.”
“They’re fictional characters, Jabari—” I cut myself off. “You know what? I think you’ll like the characters.”
He finally looks up at me. “Why’s that?”
I reach out and pat his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.”
I turn and walk away again, deliberately slow. He doesn’t follow right away. When I glance back, he’s still standing there, book open, eyes scanning the pages like he’s already invested.
“I like this one,” Jabari says, flipping through my stack of books again. “I think I could—wait. Why are these ones wrapped in plastic?”
He lifts one of my manhwa, still sealed.
“Hm.” I reach for it a little too quickly. “No reason. Let’s just go find Za so we can—”
“Can we fucking drink now?” he cuts in.
Rude!
I stare at him. “Firstly, don’t cut me off. And secondly. It’s twelve in the fucking day.”
“Last night when you said you two were going out on the phone,” he says, dead serious, “I expected day drinking.”
“I didn’t expect you to invite yourself to me and Za’s day.”
“Please,” he says. “You lot had nothing better to do.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. Fuck. Maybe I do need a drink.
He spots Za at the end of the aisle and lift his huge hand like his tall arse has to do anything to be noticeable.
“Oi!”
She looks up, sees us, and starts walking over.
“You’re paying, right?” I poke his chest.
He blinks. “For the books or the drinks?”
“Both, big man,” I say. “Come on. Swipe that card. Professional athlete.”
He grins. “Why should I pay for your things? What’s in it for me?”
“I let you touch me,” I say without missing a beat. “That’s more than you deserve.”
He laughs. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I could always stop,” I add. “If you want me to.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “My God. Woman. Does everything have to be a quip with you?”