My heart thumps. “Are you going to tell me who it is?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Why won’t he just say? “So I’m guessing it’s someone that I know, then?”
Alex nods slowly. “Yup, very close to home,” he says, and I swear I feel my blood pressure sky-rocket to the roof.
“Okay. You’re just going to have to come out and say it.” I dump my napkin on the table, leaning back in my chair, trying not to grin too widely. “Who is this mysterious woman?”
Alex laughs. “Wow, I really thought it was obvious. Yinka . . . It’s . . . Nana.”
Complete shock takes over.
“Nana? What, you mean . . . my Nana? You mean, the Nana you just met five minutes ago?”
“I thought the business card move was a giveaway—”
“So that was a ploy?” I wail, my voice no longer my own.
“Yes and no.” Alex chuckles. “I do want to make the website for her, though. Yinka, make sure she gets my business card, yeah.”
What happens next, happens too quickly for my brain to catch up.
For weeks I have literally bent over backward to get Alex to notice me. I made a fucking plan out of Post-it notes, for goodness’ sake. And my hair. God, I spent so much money on this weave. Too much money, which wasn’t wise given I’m jobless right now. And the squats! My thighs are ridden with pain and lactic acid. And all that friggin’ yam. In the space between Alex telling me that he likes Nana and his instructions to pass on his business card, my shock has transitioned to anger. I’m angry that I’m being passed over yet again. I’m angry that I’ve wasted my time. I’m angry that I’m not considered good enough.
“Well, she’s aromantic,” I say.
Alex is staring at me, confused.
“A-ro-man-tic.” I break down each syllable. “It means she’s not into dating or romantic relationships.”
Still confused.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and enter “aromantic” into Google. “See, look.” I hand Alex my phone.
“Oh,” he says after staring at the screen for what feels like five minutes.
“So, yeah. Sorry.” I am definitely not sorry.
Alex lets out a rueful laugh. “Well, it wasn’t meant to be.” He shrugs, picks up his fork and resumes eating.
I pick up my fork too, but I no longer feel hungry. I want to throw my goddamn plate on the floor.
He’s not even that fit
I shut the door, and the house resounds with an eerie silence. It follows me upstairs as I crawl into bed, under my duvet and into a fetal position.
I don’t know how I sat through the rest of that lunch. I barely listened as Alex talked about the history of Nigeria. Then the politics. Then the music. All I could think was, Alex likes Nana? on repeat. My head started to hurt with it all, and thankfully, after I yawned a couple of times, he got the hint.
As he left, he asked me if I wanted to go to his for lunch next Sunday, and I just about managed to reply, “I’ll let you know if I’m free,” though really I meant, Hell, no. Do you think I want to sit down with you after this?
“Yinka, it’s been a pleasure,” he said, giving me an awkward hug. “Honestly, I love your company. It’s nice to have a new friend in London. Well, you’re probably my only friend.”
All along he saw me as a . . . friend!
And now I’m replaying every interaction I’ve had with Alex in my head: from our first meeting, his smiles, to meeting his mum and our playful banter. And our WhatsApp messages! I whisk out my phone, swiping my finger up frantically.
I blink. It’s as though I’m seeing our messages for the first time.
He never explicitly asked me whether I would be up for going out that first Friday. I just assumed that he did because he asked me how I was spending my evening. And even if he was suggesting that we do something, he is new to London after all, and it was a Friday night!
My heart is beating fast as I scroll through our later messages. I spot all the emojis. The LOLs. Our back-and-forth banter. So all along, all along, when he was teasing me, he meant nothing by it. Or rather, he meant friendship by it!
Now my heart is drowning. No, no. I’m sure it wasn’t in my head. It can’t have been. It can’t! What about that time he licked his lips at me, huh? Are you telling me his lips were just dry? And he liked my Instagram photos! I sit up and open the app, tapping each photo that he liked.
I gasp.
Nana’s in the photo. And this one! And that one! Did he only like my photos because he liked Nana? My fingers are shaking now. I’m analyzing all the signs that I thought were signs.
Alex likes Nana? My Nana. The one who wasn’t even done up or wearing makeup and had on those hideous, unflattering leggings. I mean, I would have understood if Alex said he liked Vanessa, at least that could easily be explained away: another Black man goes for a light-skinned, curvaceous woman. Surprise, surprise. It would have been a hard pill to swallow, but I’ve swallowed it before after finding out Femi got engaged to Latoya. But Alex likes Nana. My sister, Nana. The one with the same dark skin tone and body type as mine. And it is this that baffles me. What is wrong with me? Why am I never good enough?
It’s this thought that spurs me out of bed.
I march right over to the wall and I rip off each Post-it note.
“How could I be so stupid?” I yell, my voice hoarse and gravelly as neon-colored squares flutter to the floor.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid plan.” I tear a Post-it note into tiny pieces. “I’m obviously not lovable. Not good enough.”
“Hey, Yinka! What you doing?”
I’m so fired up that I didn’t even hear the front door or Nana stomping up the stairs and entering my room.
“He doesn’t like me, okay!” I snatch another Post-it note from the wall. “He likes you, Nana. You!”
“He likes me?” Nana jerks. “What, Alex? Yinka, are you sure?”
“Sure?” I rip another Post-it note. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“What? How? We’ve never even hung out.”
“Nana, he friggin’ told me.” I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking.
Nana’s face is filled with shock.
“Okay, Yinka. Calm down.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s sit down on the bed.”
We tread over the Post-its, the paper crunching under my feet, my breath coming thick and fast.
“Breathe,” Nana says as we perch on the bed. “Now, tell me what happened,” she says. My head is bowed and I’m staring at my jittery thighs.
“Take your time,” she says.
When I tell Nana what Alex said about her, she scoffs, “You got to be kidding me. I was literally in the kitchen for like two seconds.”
“Well, you made quite an impression,” I say. “And he’s been Insta-stalking you for a while.” I explain about the photos.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I feel awful.”
“It’s not your fault,” I sigh. “Urgh, he never liked me from the start. Ola was right.” Then I scrunch my hair and groan, remembering. It’s Rachel’s bridal dress appointment tomorrow. What will I tell them?