Page 45 of Two’s Better

I burst out laughing. I found it endlessly amusing how Nigerians could just drop an ostentatious word like that in the middle of a casual convo—words I’d once upon a time thought were strictly part of the Nigerian lexicon, until I’d started reading more.

“Uzi, if you don’t stop.”

“I’m not joking around, Ofure. Please explain what you mean. And be sure to cite your sources.”

“As I was saying.” He laughed, and I grinned because that sound told me he was letting it go. For now. “God, I don’t know if I should even admit this ...”

“Ah, there’s more?”

“I got turned on,” I admitted with a dramatic groan. “You turned me on. There. Happy? Though afterward, I’d felt disgusted, because, obviously—what the fuck?”

“Completely understandable,” he said with a laugh. “How do you think I felt on the day of the orange bikini?” He huffed out a slight breath. “And, fine—” He said it like he’d just finished having a conversation with himself. “—I guess I can also admit that when you agreed with me back then—on that night, when you told me you wanted practically the same thing, for a brief moment, when I let myself think about it, I pictured you, too.”

Oh. I was suddenly filled with a yearning so ardent it left me fighting for air.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asked abruptly.

“What?”

“We still have so many more “firsts”, so to speak, and—for now, at least—I can’t imagine sharing them with anyone but you.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I should tell him we needed to actually talk about this. I should tell him we needed to take some time to actually think about this.

But, if my best friend was feeling an ounce of anything that I was, his greed for this—to keep whatever this was between us going for as long as possible—was probably greater than his logic.

And so, despite my fear that our relationship was already changing irreparably, I found myself whispering, “Yes.”

14

I’d barely managed to grab those few hours of sleep before my shift this afternoon. Every time I thought of Uzezi and what we’d agreed on last night, my chest did something weird. It felt like it got filled with air—a quick, uncomfortable inflation that was gone just as fast as it came.

It was probably some kind of foreboding, the universe warning me that diving headfirst into having sex with my best friend again—under the guise of sharing all our “firsts”—was a frankly terrible idea.

Fuck, I really shouldn’t have said yes. What would happen when this thing eventually came to an end? Matter of fact, how would we even know when to stop?

But the thought of calling him to tell him I’d changed my mind made me feel even more panicked.

Try as I might, despite all my reservations, I wanted more. I wanted him. If this thing had a deadline anyway, why couldn’t I enjoy it for as long as it lasted? Even though I was terrified I wasn’t referring to just the sex anymore.

I wanted to pretend he was mine for just a little longer.

The admission—even if it was just in my head—threatened to escalate my panic, so I tried to focus on the dishes I was washing.

Fiona, Bernice, and I were working at someone’s private birthday luncheon. It was an outdoor thing, held in the back garden of our host’s home, and there were only seven of us here, me, Bernice, and Fiona included.

It was early into the evening, now, and the party finally seemed to be winding down. We were on dishwashing duty—the host had provided everything from the food to the fancy tableware—and we’d been instructed to clean everything carefully by hand, while the other four were in charge of serving the nine courses—yes, nine—and clearing the tables after each.

Well, the girls and I were supposed to be on dishwashing duty, but Bernice had her head pressed against the cool countertop and was moaning pitifully. When we worked bigger events, we usually had a handler or two, but the host of this party had insisted on only us servers, wanting full control over our movements so her party went exactly as she wanted it. And she had been that—exact. We were only getting a little break from her practically hovering over our shoulders because she and her guests—there were over forty of them, all members of her extended family, it seemed—were finally starting on their final course. Our workmates were out there in the garden, standing in wait just in case she or the guests needed anything.

Bernice moaned again. “Why did I do this to myself?”

“I did tell you to stop,” Fiona said with uncharacteristic harshness.

I blinked. Bernice barely reacted; she must’ve been really hungover. Our girl had apparently gone to town at Felicia’s last night. I glanced in Fiona’s direction. I was washing, she was rinsing, and Bernice was supposed to be drying.

Fiona didn’t notice my stare, aggressively rinsing the dishes like they’d done something to personally offend her. I felt a flash of amusement.