“What’s so funny? Was the ‘God is my friend’ line a tad too cheesy?”
“Cheesy?” Donovan cries. “Yinka, it was mozzarella.” I laugh. He shakes his head, but I can tell that he finally sees who I really am. I feel great. Liberated even. I open my takeaway box and dig into my chicken. Screw what Nana said. I’m hungry.
“Not gonna lie, that ting looks good, you know.”
I glance up. Donovan is eyeing my chicken like a predator.
“You want some, don’t you?”
“Just a little.” He scooches closer.
“Next time, don’t feed it to the pigeons!”
I study his fingers as they rip apart my chicken. He isn’t wearing a wedding band.
“Sooo, whatever happened to that sweetheart girlfriend of yours?” I ask, half-joking, before realizing I’ve stepped in it.
Donovan freezes. He drops the small piece of chicken and glances away.
“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that,” I say quickly.
He dusts his hands. “We broke up,” he replies anyway.
“I’m sorry.”
Donovan pulls out a crumpled napkin from his hoody pocket. “Don’t be,” he gruffs, wiping his hands with it. “It’s coming up two years, man should be over her by now.”
“But she was your high school sweetheart.”
“Still,” he protests. “She’s moved on. I don’t love her any more, I just—” He breathes out. “I hate the effect the breakup had on me. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My boyfriend and I broke up three years ago. Well, he broke up with me. Got a job in New York. Wanted a fresh start. It sucks, right?”
“Like a motherfucker.” Donovan looks down and gives me a full view of his crisp cornrows. “Anyway, counseling is helping.”
“Counseling?”
Donovan chuckles and he must have read into my raised brows, because he says, “Yinka, counseling isn’t just for the white man, you know.”
I frown. “Obviously. I just thought it was something that only married couples did.”
“Nah, nah. It’s for single people too. In fact, I recommend my counselor, Jacqui, to almost everyone. She’s the goat.”
“She’s a what?”
He laughs at my confusion. “G.O.A.T. Greatest of all time. Come on, Yinka.”
“Ohhh.”
Donovan shakes his head. A boy passing by performs an impressive wheelie on his bike. “So,” he says, “how did you cope with your breakup?”
I ponder, then realize I’m chewing as loud as a goat. I quickly swallow.
“Time,” I say eventually. “Time and lots of ice cream.”
He chuckles.
“Do you think it’s worth the money? For counseling, I mean. You’re essentially paying someone to listen to you, right?”
“Trust me, it’s worth the investment. The more that you talk, the more you get out of it.”
“Hmm.”
As Donovan reaches into my takeaway box to retrieve a piece of chicken that he dropped, I feel my phone vibrate.
“Is that your friend who didn’t show?” he says as I tap the screen to read a text from Nana. She’s staying at her sister’s tonight.
“Didn’t show?” I’m baffled for a moment, and then I realize that he’s talking about Alex. “Oh, no.” I dust my hands, which are slimed with salt and grease.
Donovan pulls his phone out. “Oh, shit.” He clambers to his feet. “Gotta go.”
I think back to when I volunteered last week. Apart from Donovan annoying me, I actually had a good time. It took me back to those good days when I used to volunteer.
I stand. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I think I will volunteer tonight.”
Donovan squints at me. “I thought you had a job interview to prepare for?”
I shrug. “It isn’t till next Monday.”
“Cool, cool. But we gotta walk fast, yeah.”
I throw my takeaway box into a nearby bin.
“Admit it”—Donovan turns to walk backward, his gold chain bouncing with every step—“you’re coming because you enjoy my company, innit?”
“Oh, please. Get over yourself.”
He tosses his head back and laughs, and without meaning to, I notice his dimples.
If you want my honest opinion . . .
FRIDAY
RACHEL
Hey chicas
Just wondering
How’s plans for my bridal shower going?
Don’t forget
I want a classy afternoon tea party
Lots of champagne
Bottomless
RACHEL
Err, guys, it’s been over an hour
Why hasn’t anyone replied to my message?!!!
“Shouldn’t you be up there?” I say, nudging Rachel. But she is busy eyeing Petros—a dark-haired, sculpted god of a man with dewy, olive skin—who is currently doing his best catwalk for Nana.
This room is hardly the Ritz. Despite stacking the chairs and pushing the tables against the walls, the walkway is still narrow. But until Nana hears back from any of Aunty Blessing’s wealthy friends, a twenty quid per hour office at a local charity will have to do.
Rachel pulls one of her spiral curls. “Hun, my spot is guaranteed. Besides, I don’t want to intimidate all these wannabe models.”
I snort, then cover my mouth. Nana told us off earlier for being too loud.
I look around. On one side of the room are five women with different complexions and body shapes, and on the other side are five equally diverse men. Inspired by Rihanna’s Savage X Fenty fashion show, Nana wants her models to represent as many people as possible. For the past ten minutes, she has called them one after the other to do the catwalk, while energetic Afrobeats plays in the background.
Checking Nana’s not watching us, I lean toward Rachel. “How’s wedding planning going?”
Rachel drags her eyes from Petros’s bum. “Most of the important stuff is sorted, except for my dress. You’re still able to come wedding dress shopping next Monday, right?”
My interview flashes to mind. Though I should be done by then. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply.
“Now, where are you guys at with planning my bridal shower? And why haven’t you responded to my group message?”
“Don’t worry, cuz. Ola, Nana and I are on it.” That’s if you can call setting up a separate WhatsApp group which we’ve barely used as being “on it.”
“Ooh, speaking of Ola,” Rachel says after she checks her phone. “She should be here any sec.” She shifts a tentative glance at me. “You guys made up yet?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” Nana calls up the next model. “I was hoping to speak to her today. You know, in person.” I rub my thighs. I hope I don’t make a fudge of it.
“Okay, good.” Rachel stops her handbag from sliding off her lap. “Because I don’t want my bridesmaids bickering on my wedding day. Oh, and, what I said about Ola and Jon—”
“I won’t say anything.”
I return her smile, then shift my attention to the center of the room where an attractive model with voluminous red hair is strutting her stuff. A second later, the doorbell rings.
“That must be Ola.” Rachel clambers to her feet.
“Let me get it.” I jump out of my chair and power walk down the corridor, passing a kitchen where a cleaner is loading a dishwasher with mugs that were used earlier today.
The bell is still going. Through the glass door, I can see Ola’s kids giggling. But where’s Ola? I twist the lock and open the door.
“Aunty Yinka! Aunty Yinka!” The kids make a mad dash for my legs. The youngest, Daniel, is hugging one knee, while the middle child, Jacob, is squeezing the other. Ruth, the eldest of the bunch, wraps her arms around my waist, and I lower my head and peck her cornrows.
“Hey, sweeties,” I say. “Where’s your mum?” Jacob and Daniel completely ignore me and run into the building, Ruth tailing behind.
“Kids! No running, please!”
Ola’s voice snaps my head around, and wow.
“Ola! Look at your hair.”
For the first time in a long time, Ola has her natural hair out like the RnB singer Ari Lennox, only her afro puff ponytail isn’t quite as long. I’m not used to seeing Ola without a weave. It’s like we switched places.