Minah: Sexy. That top really accentuate your tits too. ??
Keeks: MIMI! It does, doesn’t it?
I smiled at my phone just as a notification slid down from the top of my screen.
Rianne Tucker （GoodGirllRiRi） has followed you on ProntoPic.
My smile swiftly froze and fell, the sight of the name ricocheting through my chest, hurling me to a place I’d thought I’d buried. My throat tightened as I stared at the tiny, circular avatar of the pretty girl with a glossy pout.
“Kiki?”
Malakai’s voice almost made my phone slip from my fingers. I jumped and turned around to see him looking down at me quizzically, and my stomach flipped at the sight of him. It was probably the distress of the moment prior clashing with surprise. Nothing to do with how good he looked in a black T-shirt and black windbreaker, those perfect fitting jeans, and his black Vans. Or his signature scent, clean and woodsy and crisp, mingling with the steamy roasted scent of coffee beans and pastry. Despite this, his presence was a welcome distraction; the frostiness the notification had brought ebbed, the dark feeling pushed back temporarily.
“Kai! Hi!”
Whose voice was that? Since when did my voice get so chirpy? It wasn’t even chirpy after I’d had my morning coffee and now suddenly my voice sounded like I was a Disney Princess?
If he noticed he didn’t let on, and his “Mornin’， Scotch” fell out as easy as his grin. My stomach somersaulted again. I needed something buttery inside me immediately.
“So,” I murmured as we inched forward on the queue. “Did you watch The Blackwell Beat this morning?”
Malakai nodded and smiled. “Yeah. She called me a double-chocolate-fudge mocha. You know, I’m really feeling being considered a hot beverage. I’m thinking of changing my ProntoPic handle to MochaMalakai.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a fool.”
“Funny way of saying genius. I just want to make the most of my new social capital. My followers doubled since last week. So has the number of DM slides.”
“Yeah, so have mine.” It was fascinating, as if my new relationship status made me more accessible than I was in my perpetual singledom. My inbox was brimmed full of “Yo, Kiki, what you sayin’？” comments on IG selfies asserting that “I was looking nice, still,” with multiple fire emojis. It was as if attraction to me was validated by another man’s attraction to me. That was going in the show.
Me + Newest Spice on Campus = Doubled social currency and increased perception of availability.
The queue crawled forward; it was peak time, purposely chosen so we had maximum eyes on us. The more exposure the better and in Blackwell, Coffee Shop Official was itself a relationship status. “So, did you reply to any?”
Malakai raised a brow. “DMs? Course not. I have a girlfriend who I’m dedicated to. Yoruba boys don’t cheat.”
I levelled a flat stare at him. He laughed and shook his head. “Kiki, I didn’t respond to any of them. I wouldn’t jeopardize what we’re doing. We’re in a relationship. I’m going to be how I would be in a relationship.” His eyes breezily took me in. “I like your turtleneck by the way. Very Nia Long in Love Jones. I have a mad crush on Nia Long in Love Jones. Actually, I have a mad crush on Nia Long generally. Anyway, I like your turtleneck.”
My entire body flushed.
He stood closer to me, bent low, lips inches away from my ear and whispered, “How am I doing? That’s what boyfriends do right? Compliment? And there are like ten other people from Blackwell right now, so we have witnesses.”
I nodded briskly. “Yeah. Yup. Well done.”
He leaned a little further back from me to assess me, before apparently quickly coming to a judgment of my emotional state and placing two large, warm hands on my shoulders. “Don’t stress.” His thumbs were resting lightly on my clavicles.
“I’m not stressed.”
I was stressed. Stressed about a deeply unwelcome blast from the past that came in the form of a ProntoPic notification; stressed that when Malakai complimented me I liked it—even though I should have known he was acting—and stressed about how convincing we would be as a couple. Faking it sounded doable in theory, but now I realized how much performance it would require.
Our initial kiss wasn’t an act, it was very much real, too real, so real that if it crossed my mind, I had to cross my legs, but now everything I did had to be considered, calculated. Now, I was also stressed that Malakai knew when I was stressed. And stressed that his thumbs on my clavicles were conjuring feelings that were far too erotic for ten thirty a.m.