“Did we make you feel like that?” Obioma asked, looking painfully small. “Did we make you feel like you couldn’t mourn her?”
“No,” Obiora said immediately, hating that he was the one making his brother look like that. Then, “Yes,” he admitted hesitantly, because he couldn’t coddle them any longer without hurting himself. He didn’t want to hurt anymore.
“Nicholas was jealous,” Obinna said, seemingly explaining to himself. A smidgen of shame bled into his next sentence. “You did nothing in the course of your relationship to make him feel insecure—heck, I remember you pretending the anniversary of her funeral didn’t make you feel like poop, all to coddle a grown man’s feelings. And we prioritised his feelings of inadequacy over your need to grieve Ada however you saw fit. She was someone you loved, and she died too soon. Nicholas should’ve respected that.”
Oh, oh God. Obiora was going to cry.
“Oh, obim,” his mother said, almost a sob, and that was it.
He looked away, wiping his eyes furiously.
“Come here. Come here, my son.” But she’d gotten up, perching herself on the armrest of his chair, pulling him into her bosom like he was still a child. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”
Obiora let her baby him, and cried.
“WELL, THAT WAS CATHARTIC,” OBIORA said a few hours later when he and his brothers left the house, after being stuffed full. In the end, they’d strayed away from topics of conversation that could’ve been upsetting.
His parents didn’t ask him about the competition again after that, probably thinking perhaps he’d lost. Or maybe they thought he’d won, but weren’t sure if their excitement for that would be read as them being happy that he was “moving on” or not. Fucking hell, this whole thing was a mess.
“I really missed you, brother.” Obioma threw an arm over Obiora’s shoulders. After a beat, Obinna echoed the movement on his other side.
Obiora felt warm all over, though he pretended he was irritated instead. “What is it, now?”
“What? We can’t just miss you again?”
Obiora couldn’t help but laugh, because out of the three of them, Obinna was the one who’d lost the Nigerian accent and mannerisms the fastest, but he’d said that in the thickest Igbo accent he could muster.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you not answering the question earlier,” Obioma continued. Obinna groaned.
“For God’s sake, Obioma, let it rest.”
“Just answer the question: did you win or not?”
At that moment, Obiora’s phone beeped as the cab he’d ordered pulled up in front of the house.
He slipped from his brothers’ clutches, smiling a little as he spun around, walking backward towards his cab.
“No, Obioma, I didn’t win.”
“Oh.” Obioma tried—poorly—to hide his disappointment.
“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Obinna sighed.
Obiora laughed. He opened the cab door. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t meet someone, though.”
He’d already shut the door before the words could sink in.
“Wait, what?”
“Obiora, you get out of that car right now!”
“Drive!” Obiora told the man, laughing, and the car was off, the driver shaking his head with amusement.
His phone pinged several times after that, and Obiora grinned. Finally. It felt good to be home.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE THREE DAYS IT TOOK for Ejiro to get eliminated from the competition felt like the longest days of his entire life. But when it finally happened, Ejiro felt simultaneously relieved, scared, and melancholic in equal measure. After Sophia had told him he was going home, they’d hugged, and he’d known, as he’d looked into her eyes, that even without his feelings for Obiora, things between them would never have worked out, even if Ejiro had tried. The non-consensual kiss really had ruined everything.
