18 #2
“Y’all are eating dinner at almost ten PM?” My stomach chose that moment to rumble. Loudly.
Prince smirked, one eyebrow playfully raised. “Clearly “y’all” is referring to those three stomachs you got there.”
I snorted, standing and shoving him playfully in the shoulder. “I’m feeling like pizza.”
Prince glanced questioningly at Dayo. Their eyes met, and there it was, for the briefest second—that sweet tension. Then Dayo was nodding and quickly breaking eye contact, and I was left wondering if I’d imagined it.
Prince grinned. I wasn’t sure if he was oblivious or only pretending to be. “Pizza it is.”
The first thing I’d done after I’d come home was take a quick shower. After my nightly routine, I came down in my bonnet and my favourite cotton pyjamas—a dark pink tank top and skimpy black shorts, my feet shoved into my fluffy bedroom slippers.
After all the exercise Uzezi and I had done, I was starving. The thought of his name alone sent my heart pitter-pattering like a frightened mouse.
I guzzled down a bottle of water as I gazed into the fridge, wondering what I could whip up in thirty minutes or less that would still be filling.
I didn’t want to order, and I definitely didn’t want to spend too much time sweating over a hot stove this late at night.
My mind went to Indomie, but I wasn’t in the mood for noodles.
There was some plain leftover rice from the lunch I’d cooked before my date with Uzezi yesterday—Christ, that was just yesterday?—so it’ll have to do.
I brought out the butter, quickly chopped up some vegetables, and began beating up some eggs.
I thought I heard the sound of Bernice’s room door opening, and I had, because I glanced up into the sitting room, trying to peer through the opening leading to the entryway, and both my housemates walked inside, making their way to the kitchen.
Bernice’s eyes were red and swollen.
I didn’t stop beating my eggs, not wanting her to feel self-conscious. She went straight to the cupboards and brought out a pack of cereal.
“Oh, what are you making?” Fiona asked, eyeing all the ingredients on the counter.
“Fried rice,” I replied. “There’s not a lot of rice left, but you both can have some if you want.”
Bernice shook the pack of cereal. “I’m good, thanks.”
“I’ll have some,” Fiona said eagerly, not that I’d expected anything less. She’d once drunkenly professed her love for my fried rice, telling me if it had been a sentient object, she’d have fucked it. Which was probably the highest compliment I’d ever received about any of my cooking.
“All right, Bernice?” I remembered I’d meant to check on her after our shift, but then—
My stomach lurched as memories of the last few hours sped through my mind. No, fuck, stop. I really didn’t want to think about that right now.
“Oh, no big deal,” she said dramatically. “Just Hafsa professing her undying love for me, apparently.”
“Ah.” Hafsa was one of her Culinary Arts friends. I knew she and the Hijabi were close, but damn. “And that’s ... bad?” I glanced at Fiona for help.
Fiona had been pointedly silent, which told me she and Bernice had already discussed this. Bernice gave her a slight nod.
“Bernice just came out to me,” she said softly. “She’s aromantic and asexual, and she’s not interested in relationships of any kind. At all. Except the platonic kind, obviously.”
“Oh.” My heart sank for her as I understood. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” Fiona said with empathy. “That’s why she drank so much last night. She hasn’t spoken to Hafsa since her confession. Hafsa was one of the first people to know about Bernice’s preferences, so to speak, and I guess Bernice is feeling a little ... blindsided. Maybe a teensy bit betrayed.”
Bernice had finished making her cereal, and was now loudly and dramatically crunching on it. She held the bowl up like she was raising a glass of wine. “Cheers, ladies. I’m going to my room. Feel free to gossip about me while I’m gone.” She winked.
It might sound like she was joking, but I knew that was her giving us—mostly Fiona, since she at least seemed to know everything—explicit permission to talk about her in her absence.
“Anyway, that’s the long and short of it,” Fiona said after Bernice had left.
“I know this is going to make their friendship all weird and uncomfortable now, and she’s basically pissed that Hafsa has put her in this position in the first place.
Like, Hafsa already knows about Bernice’s feelings toward romance and sex and all that shit, so what was the point in letting her know, you know?
And that made me think ... what if Hafsa didn’t want her to do anything?
What if Hafsa is in love with her, yes, and that’s just ...
that. A fact that exists. Something neither of them need to do anything about. ”
“Sounds ... I don’t know. Idealistic?”
“I know, I know. We’ve all been conditioned to see a romantic confession as something to not only respond to favourably, but something to act on. It sounds odd that someone would just ... confess their feelings without expecting anything in return.”
But even though Hafsa wasn’t part of our core friend group, I knew her.
I knew the kinds of people we all interacted with, and it was always people who had the same values as we did.
Maybe I was being idealistic or whatever, but I tentatively agreed with Fiona about Hafsa possibly stating her feelings without any expectations on her part.
That didn’t mean Bernice’s own feelings of anger and betrayal and confusion weren’t valid; whether Hafsa had meant her confession to be without conditions, things between her and Bernice were still irrevocably going to change.
“And change is scary,” I whispered after telling Fiona my conclusion, dropping the bowl of eggs I’d still been whisking on the counter. I’d gone on for too long and they were too airy.
“Yeah,” Fiona agreed. I must’ve been standing there for a while, staring blankly into space, because she asked, a bit teasingly, “All right over there?”
I turned to look at her, taking a deep, fortifying breath. “I think I’m in love with Uzezi.”
She blinked, her mouth opening and closing. I couldn’t help but laugh at her expression, albeit hysterically.
“Do I need to sit down for this?” She raised an eyebrow.