The first course arrived moments later, presented on pristine white plates like edible art. Something with burrata, and heirloom tomatoes in shades of red and yellow. A drizzle of olive oil that gleamed. Fresh basil leaves so fragrant I could smell them from across the table.
I took a bite and had to close my eyes. The flavors exploded on my tongue. Bright, fresh, perfectly balanced. Sweet and savory and rich all at once.
"Good?" Femi asked, his voice low and amused.
"Don't gloat."
"I would never."
"You're gloating right now. I can hear it in your voice."
He raised both hands in mock surrender, his cufflinks catching the candlelight. "I’m just appreciating, Issy. Just enjoying the moment."
I shook my head, but I was smiling despite myself.
This was the problem with Femi. He made everything easy. Conversation flowed like we'd never stopped having it. He remembered things—the way I liked my wine, my habit of eating the garnish first, the face I made when something was really good.
He made me forget why I’d spent eight years avoiding him. The rhythm between us was still there, still effortless, like muscle memory we couldn't shake.
"You still do that," he said, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
"Do what?" I popped another piece of tomato in my mouth.
"That little hum. When you taste something you love." He tilted his head, and the candlelight caught the angles of his face, made him look younger somehow. "You used to do it with mum’s jollof rice. Drove her absolutely mad because you wouldn't tell her what you were humming about."
The memory hit me unexpectedly, sharp and sweet. His mother's kitchen in Lagos. The heat, the noise, the smell of tomatoes and peppers and spices I couldn't name. His mother laughing, adding more spice because she knew I liked it hot. Femi stealing bites from my plate when she wasn't looking.
I pressed my lips together, trying to suppress the sound. He grinned at me, triumphant, and I felt something crack in my chest.
"I miss your mum," I admitted before I could stop myself. "She was always so kind to me."
"She asks about you, you know. Every time I see her." He took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. "I've had to become quite creative with my deflections. She's convinced I let the love of my life slip away."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning.
"Did you?" The question came out before I could stop it.
Femi's expression shifted. Something raw and unguarded flickered across his face before he smoothed it away behind his usual charm.
"I suppose that depends on whether she'll let me catch her again," he said, his voice had gone softer, more serious.
My throat felt tight. I looked down at my plate, avoiding his gaze.
"Femi..."
"I know." His voice was gentle now, understanding. "I'm not asking for answers tonight, yeah? I'm not trying to pressure you or make you uncomfortable. I'm just... being honest. Something I should have been better at, back then."
The second course arrived, saving me from having to respond. Lamb, pink in the center, with something green and herbaceous underneath. We ate in silence for a moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who didn't need to fill every gap with noise.
"Do you remember Geneva?" he asked eventually, his voice casual.
"Which part of Geneva?” I took a sip of wine, buying time. “We spent two years there together. That’s a lot of memories."
"The night before my graduation. When we snuck out to the lake."
Oh. That night.
I remembered. Of course, I remembered that night. How could I forget? I still had two years left in boarding school, so to mourn our temporary separation, we’d stolen a bottle of champagne from the headmaster's private collection and sat on the dock with our feet in the water, talking until the sun came up.
