Three years later.
I scoop a teaspoon of jam out of the jar and spread it on the circle of dough I just rolled.
"I have a suggestion," my best friend, Lily, says over the phone. "At the risk of you denying me your tasty treats."
I roll up my jam covered circle and arch an eyebrow. "That is a bold suggestion."
"Right? Anyway, I was wondering if you had, at some point in the last year, considered that maybe, you are in a toxic relationship?" She asked.
I blinked. I knew she was going to bring up Frank, my boyfriend of a year and three months, yet I am still stunned.
"Hello?" She says. "Are you still there?"
"I am," I reply as I need a new lump of dough.
"And?" She asks. Lily is nothing if not persistent, and I love her for it. But…
"It has crossed my mind over the last few weeks," I answer, cautiously.
"And?" She asks again.
I love her, but I want to strangle her for being nosy. Maybe I will deny her my tasty treats.
"It is what it is," I say with a shrug.
"It—being a toxic relationship. Am I getting that right?" She asks. I want to tell her that she should have been a reporter. She knows how to grill me for answers.
"Not toxic, per se. It's just…" I struggle to find the right word. "Complicated."
"Elaborate."
I roll my eyes. "We both love each other, I know that. He just needs his space sometimes, and I get that."
Lily gasps on the other end. "You…you've turned into an understanding girlfriend!" She says.
I shrug. "I don't really see anything wrong with that if we're in love."
She snorts. "Please. If he really loved you he wouldn't have begged you not to take the job at Rutherford."
I shrug again. "He didn't like the distance."
"That, or he didn't like that it meant you're getting a better salary," Lily said.
I chew my bottom lip. The thought had occurred to me, but I pushed it aside because Frank is not that type. Regardless, I did take the job and I made it clear to Frank that I couldn't pass up such an opportunity. It led to another one of our numerous break ups. They don't usually last very long, a week at maximum, and that one was no different. He showed up at my apartment drunk and crying about how he couldn't lose me so, yes, he'd let me take the job and he wouldn't give me shit about it.
I would have corrected him: that it wasn't his choice, that it was mine, but I wanted him back so badly that I overlooked it. Like I overlooked the time he told me not to send him random selfies because 'They're clogging up my phone.'
Because he is human, therefore not perfect, but I love him still.
"I don't see your point." I tell Lily. A barefaced lie because…I don't know. I just know it's a lie.
"My point is that he's changing you, and not for the better. You're not the type to put up with stuff like this!" Lily exclaims.
"Yeah well, not all of us have picture-perfect romances, Lily. This is the real world, where people love each other but still fight!" I exclaim.
I feel bad for the words that tumbled out of my mouth. But I'm too angry to take them back. She needs to not meddle in my relationship so much. I don't meddle in hers anyway.
There is silence on her end for a count of eighteen, then she says. "Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep. I just want you to be happy."
My heart wrenches as I say, "And I am happy," because I know I don't believe it. "I have to go, babe. Let's talk later, okay? Nakupenda! "
I hang up before she can get a word in, and I hate myself for it. I have been feeling a wedge between us, Lily and I, and I feel like I just deepened it.
Frank's words haunt me.
You don't think you're going to be best friends forever, do you? You're going to have separate lives, live in separate counties. The clock is ticking on your friendship, Kay.
I hate to admit it, but I think he may have been right, and it hurts like hell.
***********
I'm sitting in my favorite booth at my favorite cafe. The one at the corner that only seats two and has a mirror on the other side. I'm staring at my phone screen, unable to grasp the words written on it.
Call ended.
I call again. It rings for about three seconds before I hear that annoying tone.
I don't need to look at the screen again to know that Frank hung up on me for the fifth time in the last three hours.
I want to be outraged. A part of me is angry, and yet, I am not surprised that he's pulling this shit on me.
We were fine three days ago when I suggested we have lunch here and he agreed. I guess we're not fine now.
I look a the string of texts I sent him.
1:03 pm: I'm almost there.
1:14 pm: I'm so glad I'm not the one who's late. What's your ETA though?
1:26 pm: I'm pretty sure you're officially late. That means you owe me ice cream.
1:27 pm; You could at least pick up when I call. I just want to know if you're okay.
1:29 pm: Did you just hang up on me?
2:12 pm: You're being very douchey right now.
2:35 pm: You just hung up on me again. One more time and you'll win a prize!
3:02 pm: I cannot believe you would do this to me.
3:05 pm: Normal people would have given a heads up before bailing on their GIRLFRIEND!
3:08 pm: Hey Kayla. I won't be able to make it to lunch today.
TWELVE WORDS. Not very hard.
3:28 pm: What's wrong?
4:21 pm: This is not YOU behaviour.
4:22 pm: Are you at a meeting? Is that why you're ignoring me?
4:24 pm: Did I do something wrong? Can we talk about it?
Stupid, emotional, obsessive little me. Olivia Rodrigo plays somewhere in the cafe. I knew from the start this is exactly how you'd leave.
Yeah well, screw you, Olivia. I'm perfectly fine.
I type a new text, even though it's unnecessary.
5:17 pm: Nevermind, I'm going home.
I shoulder my purse and walk to the cashier, to pay for the mocha I ordered, and I walk out of the cafe.
It's sunny outside. I would have expected the weather to be gloomy just to match my mood. The thing is, though, I love gloomy weather, and I'm not a fan of hot, sunny days. So the weather is quite fitting.
I would call Lily to rant, but I already feel the distance growing between us, and she would probably say something I wouldn't like. Like 'You have to break up with him! '
It's a crazy idea to break up with Frank just because he bailed on one date.
'What about because he doesn't take you seriously?' my inner know-it-all voice asks. 'or because he doesn't value you or your time?' she asks again. 'or because you just don't like him anymore?'
I'm not sure if those are reasons valid enough for me to doom myself to singledom. And Frank is really nice when he's not being a total douchebag.
I wipe off a bead of sweat that has already formed on my temple. I would have wanted to walk home, but I decide to take a bus instead. I really don't like the sun.
On the slightly overcrowded bus, I whip out my phone. I tell myself that I'm not doing it to check if Frank replied to my messages, but I find myself tapping the messages app and only finding evidence of my desperation.
Weak.
I drift off to my Instagram instead. I've got new messages from Lily, probably a number of reels and posts that speak so much about our friendship. Our friendship that is dying by the second!
I decide to entertain myself with a bunch of reels when I come across one of someone I should know. It's a compilation of his moments on camera and I'm sure I know those broad shoulders from somewhere. I'm busy trying to figure out where I know him from, when I see the man-bun.
Huh.
I do know him from somewhere. A celebrity, obviously, but who?
I look for a bunch of more reels of him. Hint; they're a lot. Perhaps too many.
I'm about to give up my futile search when I spot a picture of him standing in a field of green grass, sporting a red and white jersey, with a bunch of other guys in the same gear. 'Fly Emirates' is written on all of their jerseys. Arsenal.
Since when do I recognize football players?
I'm studying the picture to see if I recognize anyone else when someone taps me on my shoulder. I look up to see the conductor glaring daggers at me. "Shuka!" He says, louder than necessary. I realize that the bus isn't moving, and that I'm at my stop. Oops.
I shove my phone back in purse and hurriedly get off the bus. My cheeks are hot from embarrassment and I'm busy trying to fan them on my way home.
I don't dare to take out my phone until I'm in my apartment building, lest someone snatch it. I take the stairs two at a time, eager to get home and strip off my skinny jeans.
It is the first thing I do once I've closed the door behind me. I sit cross legged on my couch and whip out my phone to continue my search. A different reel is playing once my screen is on. It's a bestie poses reel that I send to Lily without a thought.
Damn it.
I log out and decide to Google the Arsenal team. Once I've typed the words in my search bar I hesitate, thinking; 'Am I seriously googling a football team?' and I hit search.
It takes a few seconds to load because of the building's crappy wi-fi. When it does, though, his face is the first that I see. Man-bun. I intently study those broad shoulders, the full lips, the piercing blue eyes that elegantly match his blond hair.
I've touched that hair. I've held on to those shoulders while…Oh Lord!
I have met him. I grip the ends of my braids tightly to remember just how I know him, and then it finally hits me.
Manchester. A crowded bar, dimly lit. A bottle of ginger ale. Steph scowling at me for texting Grayson. Bartender delivering a martini. Man-bun. Wing-man. Ooh.
I try to remember what name he gave me, but I can only remember the things he did. The things I did. The night at his hotel room.
How giddy I felt the next day, after he had dropped me off at my hotel room and given me his number. The guilt I felt when Grayson told me he wanted to get back together. The promise I'd made myself to forget about that night in Manchester, about Henry.
Right. That's the name he gave me.
Not Indrek Ivanov. What even is that, Russian?
I paste his name onto a Wikipedia search board and immediately regret it. Well, not immediately immediately. First, I'm momentarily distracted by his smiling face, incredible jawline, piercing eyes and—did I say momentarily?
I tear my eyes off his handsome face and decide to read his bio instead. Turns out he's Estonian, not Russian, oh well. He was born on February 14 in the year 2000 (of course he's a valentine's baby). He's an Estonian professional footballer and plays as a striker for the Premier League club, Arsenal—
Frank is calling. There's a picture of us on the screen. His eyes are closed, his pearly whites in display, his cheeks wide, and I'm kissing his left cheek. We took that on one of his good days; when I wasn't public enemy number one. I pick up, against my better judgement.
"Hello?" He says.
I stay silent.
"Hello? Kayla?" He continues.
"Frank."
"I am so sorry, Kay. It's been a crazy couple of days. I want to explain in person." He says, his voice taking on that hint of remorse that gets me wrapped around his finger.
"Don't bother, I'm busy," I say.
"Doing what?" He demands, there's a bit of noise on his end.
I lean back into my couch. "Oh, you know. This and that, here and there," I answer, flicking my free hand left and right.
"Sounds sketchy," he says, using that 'I don't like this and I know what's best' voice of his.
"Doesn't it?" I counter, lacing innocences into my voice.
"Kayla…" he drags.
"This was a great talk, we should have more like these. Bye, now," I finish cheerily before hanging up.
He calls again, but I hang up, thinking 'see how you like it!'
I glance back at the Wikipedia page, but it's not as appealing as it was a few minutes ago. I go through it anyway, because why not.
Apparently he's almost always neck and neck with some dude named Haaland. They're both significantly good players known for their speed, strength, positioning and apparently the sizes of their dicks because this article reeks of testosterone. I exit my browser before I turn into some football groupie (shudder) and decide to go back to watching reels instead, because I have nothing better to do with my day.
***********
Nakupenda: I love you
Shuka: Alight/get off(.ie. the vehicle)