Page 4 of Summer Breakdown
Frankie blinks, and the woman smiles at her.
“Holy shit.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jasminehasbeenatthe bar for forty minutes. Her sole purpose for coming tonight was to find friends—and a lay, if the heavens aligned. She thought it was nought-for-two, but then a group of women sat behind her, and she’s been trying to figure out how to talk to them ever since. Every other sentence at their table is finished with laughter. Jasmine isn’t sure what they’re talking about, but she wants to know.
Right now, though, her attention has been taken by the sexiest person in the world. Jasmine has been looking specifically for sexy people. She’s studied. She’s compared. She’ll stand by her words. Thisisthe sexiest person in the world.
And they’re staring right at her.
Jasmine is used to being stared at. She has been her entire life.
First, it was because she was a Black child surrounded by a sea of white people. Not her fault—her mum is white, and her dad Black, but he used to work the night shift, so she rarely left the house with him. Then because, at seventeen years old, she held her toddlers’ hand as he attempted to walk in a straight line. Kind of her fault, but she doesn’t like to think anything negative about him, so she doesn’t. Finally, because she finally figured out how to do her hair, and she realised she could be pretty. Other people thought it too.
Jasmine thinks it’s rude to stare at people regardless, but she’s used to it now.
She’ll let it slide, though, if the person staring at her is ridiculously hot, and especially if they’re in the bar she’s in right now. Jasmine doesn’t go over to them, though. Not because she’s nervous, but because something about their aura is telling her not to. The wide eyes, the way they worry their lip. Their gaze frantically moving between Jasmine’s face and something else until Jasmine thinks they might be trapped in some kind of time loop. Jasmine smiles, and they disappear back to their table with a quickness she’ll try not to be offended by. Jasmine doesn’t mind. She’s sure their lingering gaze meant they wanted to come over. That’s enough for now.
Hell, it might be the best offer she’s got since the one that led to her moving to Toulshire. A picturesque bungalow had fallen onto her moving app, and she’d made the move as soon as she could.
Jasmine and Mike officially broke up a few months ago, which was ridiculous. It was over the moment she got pregnant the first time they had sex, at fifteen. Now, he says it’s because she’s a lesbian. Which is true, but to be fair, he was also useless. The lesbian thing was the catalyst, though, when she figured it out for real. Jasmine didn’t have an epiphany that she was a lesbian or anything. It took time to realise, and it was difficult without the ability to act on anything or figure anything out for herself outside of her mind and books. Once she couldn’t pretend anymore, she told him.
It took a while for him to adjust, but she didn’t owe him the rest of her life. Sure, he gave her Marc and Lani, but apart from that, they were two children who fell pregnant rather than falling in love. They deserved more.
Now, she’s left with the hideous task of making friends when she’s one foot in the grave. Why couldn’t Jasmine have made lifelong friends in school? Then she’d have people to talk to about feeling lonely, the idea that she wants to be more than a mum, and the hideous guilt of feeling like thatmeans her children aren’t enough for her. She’d be able to talk to someone older than fourteen. (Four, if she’s honest, because getting a conversation out of Marcel is like getting blood from a stone.)
When she took the kids to visit her parents for the weekend (another reminder she needed friends—her parents don’t watch television from this decade, and who else is she going to screech about Grey’s Anatomy with?), she’d scoured the internet (a local Facebook group she looked at on her mother’s phone) for events taking place in town. That’s how she wound up at the pub quiz alone. Mike has the children tonight. Once every two weeks, and he puts up a fuss about it like they aren’t the best things in the world. Absolute weapon.
Jasmine is pulled from her thoughts as a woman on the table behind her whines, “I want someone to tie me up and edge me until I cry.”
Jasmine laughs into her lemonade. She can’t see them because the booth has a high back—one she’s currently leaning against—but she can hear them. They’re not obnoxiously loud, but they’re enjoying themselves. It’s nice. She wonders if it’s the one from the bar that’s speaking or not. They must be sitting at that table, because Jasmine can see most of the pub from her seat, and she’d scout them out in a heartbeat. Those gorgeous arms and the thighs they’re hiding behind baggy jeans. Jasmine takes a deep breath. Better to not think about it too hard.
Jasmine taps her fingers against her empty glass. She needs another drink so she has something to hold on to when she wins the quiz single-handedly. But this bar doesn’t have table service, and she’s worried she’ll lose her table. She’s already cleaned this one, but the need to do something with her hands takes over. If worst comes to worst, she’ll sit at the bar. Perhaps being out of a darkened corner will help her talk to someone.
She stands and shuffles her trousers back down her thighs. She’s wearing straight-legged leather trousers and a black top. Fashion may change every few years, but jeans and a nice top never go out of style, even if the trousers feel the need to sit halfway up her shins every time she sits down.
When she walks to the bar, the bartender serves her right away. He’s been flirting with her since she got here, and she’ll let him, because she doesn’t want to wait in a queue.
But then the worst happens. She gets her lemonade with a splash of cherry and flips her hair as she turns only to see her table’s been taken.The nerve.She knew it was a risk, but she was hopeful anyway. Maybe she could go over there and take it back? If you asked an English person something to their face, they’d probably do it out of sheer politeness, even if they then brought it up to their friends for the rest of their lives.
Jasmine takes a deep breath and glares at them. They’ve pulled a few spare chairs around. There’s not enough space for all of them, but alas, she’s tableless. She could go over and chat and hope they want her to join them, but they’re not giving her the right vibe. Jasmine could sit here, but the bartender is already looking at her, and she can flirt with a man for quick service but not anything else.
Before she knows it, there’s a wave of pink hair in front of her.
“Hi!”
“Hi,” Jasmine replies. The woman is bubbly, but not in the cringe way people use to refer to themselves when they’re annoying. She’s clearlybubbly.
“Hi! I’m Mali. Do you want to sit with us?” she asks, turning quickly, then spinning back. Jasmine assumes she’s showing her who she’s sitting with, but her movements are so rapid she has no time to follow it.
“Hi, Mali.”
“Hi,” she says again, before Jasmine has a moment to reply. “The girls saw those guys steal your table,which is so rude because you were clearly going to the bar, but menarerude. We’re going to do the quiz. If you were going to do it too, you’re welcome to sit with us. We’re over there.” Mali points to the booth Jasmine was sitting behind. As Jasmine turns, she feels eyes upon her. Her gaze floats for a moment until she locks onto the pair in question, andoh.
It’s them. With those incredible arms. They hold Jasmine’s gaze for a moment. It’s nice. It makes her stomach warm. It makes her want to smile.
Jasmine looks back to Mali. “Sure.”
