I scan through the page and learn that she graduated with a First-Class Honours in Business and Management from the same Russell Group university as me, that she’s fluent in French, is a qualified lifeguard, is allergic to pineapple, names a Sloane Chavan (a name that rings a very faint bell but I can’t figure out why) as her best friend, and her favourite food is her grandfather’s roasted seabass. And that’s just all the information I glean from a twenty-second glance.
The page is double-sided.
My respective one is empty.
I put the paper down and decide I’ve indulged enough in Imani’s kindness. Enough is enough. I need to end this now, before Imani gets too into this and we head past the point of no return. Although, worryingly, it does feel like she’s already there.
‘Don’t you think this is a bit… much?’ I gesture towards the dossier and pile of paper in front of me. ‘You’re really… you’re really going all in on this.’
Imani cocks her head to the side slightly, the beginnings of a frown starting to appear. ‘Well, yeah? I mean, what’s the point of doing something if you don’t throw your entire self into it?’
She says it like it’s simply a matter of fact, and it kills the retort I had lined up on the tip of my tongue.
Maybe she has a point.
Circumstances in life have forced me to become the kind of person who takes the safe route. Who waits for things to fall into place to avoid rocking the boat. Who slots himself into the preordained spaces made for him without so much as a second thought. But there’s something about Imani’s focus, the way she dives in headfirst without hesitation, that makes me realise there’s a difference between doing and simply letting the world turn around you. The different between existing andliving.
I realise, with a pang, that I’m not sure if my life up till now can be considered welllived. I’ve been nothing but a passive participant in my own life for the better part of twenty-eight years.
‘And I needed a distraction,’ she continues, completelyoblivious to the mental warfare going on in my own mind. ‘From… well, never mind.’ She shakes her head and waves a nonchalant hand. ‘Anyway, if we’re going to do this, we might as well do it properly, no?’
I hate how dry my mouth is right now. Hate how slick with sweat my palms are and how hard my heart is thudding against my ribcage.
Imani Davies should not be eliciting these kinds of feelings from me. I barely know her. Her happiness means nothing to me. I owe her absolutely nothing.
And yet.
‘What if we don’t do this?’ I finally manage to rasp out.
Imani freezes. ‘Uh?’
‘I’ve had some time to think,’ I say, surreptitiously wiping my hands against my thigh. ‘And I don’t think this plan is going to work.’
A shadow of disappointment flashes across Imani’s face. My heart twists.
‘Alright,’ she says slowly, voice clipped. ‘What’s your plan then?’
She’s misunderstood; gone ahead and mistaken me for a man rather than a doormat.
I swallow down the newly formed lump in my throat and force the words out. ‘I don’t have a plan.’
‘Well then,’ she says, and there’s not a single trace of the lightness from earlier in her voice now. Not even a hint of that lovely smile. ‘Let’s stick withmyone unless you can think of something—’
‘I’m not going to go against my father.’ I say it so quickly, the words come out as a garbled mess.
Imani stiffens and I watch as any remnant of goodwill she has towards me evaporates. ‘Excuse me? What do you mean you’re not going to go against him?’ she asks. ‘Because it sounds like you’re saying t bring hat you want to… That youwant…’ She can’t even herself to finish the sentence. Instead, she just frantically gestures between us, eyes wide with alarm.
‘I don’t want to marry you,’ I say quickly, before her imagination can run wild. ‘I mean, I’m not trying to offend you or anything, but—’
Imani waves an impatient hand. ‘Don’t worry about offending me, just explain yourself.’
I swallow.Just explain yourself. How do I explain twenty-odd years of neglect and the father-shaped hole in my life to her without sounding like a pathetic mess?
Imani’s gaze is still fixed on me. ‘Asher,’ she says, voice low, steady. ‘Please tell me you’re not seriously considering going through with this.’
I rake a hand through my hair and sigh. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It is,’ she insists. ‘You say no. You tell your father you’re not going to let him use your life like some bargaining chip in a corporate deal. End of story.’
