Three Years Later
Angel's POV
Ugh.
I groaned, peeling my eyes open like they'd been sealed shut with superglue. Every inch of my body felt like it had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. Twice. Still, I forced myself to stretch and drag my sorry self out of bed. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to.
See, if I didn't show up today, my mother would skin me alive. And I'm not being dramatic. Okay, maybe just a little. But still—death by angry Nigerian mum is not the way I want to go.
It's not even her fault. It's mine. I haven't seen her or Dad in three years. Three. The only contact we've had is through calls and occasional texts. I refused all their visits. Cut them off cold. I thought I needed space—turns out I needed a whole damn continent of it.
"Why is my life like this?" I muttered, stumbling toward the bathroom.
Then the nausea hit.
For the third time this morning.
Blame it on last night's terrible decisions. Specifically, drinking like my liver was invincible. Spoiler alert: it wasn't.
My walk to the toilet was award-worthy—Slowest Human of the Year. If I looked in the mirror right now, I was pretty sure either I'd pass out or shatter it from sheer horror.
"I swear, I'm never drinking again," I whispered, clutching the toilet as I emptied the nothing left in my stomach. Again.
Of course, I'd probably be saying the exact same thing the next time I got sad or pissed and reached for a bottle. It's a vicious cycle. I'm self-aware. Not self-controlled.
I rinsed my mouth, tried to convince my body to shower—and failed. My limbs were basically on strike. I felt like an ancient boneless granny made of jelly.
"Forget it," I mumbled. "If Mum kills me, at least I'll die well-rested."
I flopped back on the bed, dragged the covers over my face, and passed out again.
---
FIVE HOURS LATER
Waking up the second time felt like a resurrection. I wasn't moving like a zombie anymore. No nausea. No full-body ache. This… this was bliss.
And then I checked my phone.
"Crap! It's almost twelve?!"
Panic kicked me into high gear. I flew through my shower, dressed in the first thing I grabbed—blue jeans and a blue tee. Was it underwhelming for a long-awaited reunion with my parents? Maybe. But comfort over fashion, always. Also, if my mother decided to chase me with a slipper, I needed the mobility. Gowns don't run well.
Three hours later, I pulled up in front of my childhood home.
There she was—Mum, standing outside and talking to someone.
Someone with their back turned.
Someone… familiar?
I got out of the car, heart picking up pace. Mum turned, spotted me, and squealed like a fangirl. She ran straight into my arms and squeezed like she wanted to glue me to her permanently. And honestly? I needed that hug.
Things were starting to feel okay.
Until he turned around.
"Angel…" he whispered.
And just like that, every ounce of progress crumbled.
I froze. The shame. The pain. The unresolved heartbreak all rushed back in. I thought I was over it. Over him. Guess not.
Because standing in front of me was my ex-best friend. The boy I had a massive crush on. The same boy who kissed me—and then had the audacity to call me a mistake.
What. The actual. Hell.
What was he doing here?
Why was he talking to my mum?
Why was he on my porch like he belonged here?
"Mum?" I called.
"Yes, darling?"
"You know I love you, right?"
She smiled softly. "Of course, honey. What's wrong?"
"I missed you so much."
"I know. So... answer my question."
"What's he doing here?"
She blinked. "Who do you mean?"
"Him."
"Oh, Angel... didn't I tell you?"
"Tell me what, Mum?"
"I must've forgotten to mention it, but... we've been in touch. He and I."
My jaw dropped. "You what?"
"I didn't mean to hurt you. But after you left, he was lost. His mum begged me to talk to him. He was spiraling."
"And I wasn't?" My voice cracked. "Just because I didn't call you crying every night doesn't mean I wasn't in pain."
"I know you were, but—"
"No," I cut her off. "Tell him to leave."
"Angel…"
"Don't interfere. I don't want him here. I'm not comfortable."
"Kitten…"
That word. That stupid nickname.
"I told you not to call me that!" I snapped, my anger rising.
"I know I hurt you. I'm sorry."
"Oh, sorry? You think 'sorry' fixes everything? The humiliation? The heartbreak?"
"No. But I had to try."
"Well, don't. I don't want to hear it."
"Angel, please just hear him out—" Mum tried again.
"No," I interrupted. "Mum, I just got home. I don't want to argue, not with you. But if you let him stay, I'm leaving."
He opened his mouth to say something else, and I snapped.
"I don't need anything from someone who failed me. You called me a mistake. That's not something you say to someone who was always there for you."
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I turned before anyone could see them fall.
I marched into the house.
---
And ran straight into my dad.
"Hey, cupcake," he greeted me, startled. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're crying."
"No, I'm not."
"That's absurd."
"I'm fine, Dad."
"I don't believe you."
"I just need a drink."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're lucky I've got your back. But I'm not letting this go."
"Love you."
"Go freshen up—you stink."
I gasped. "Excuse me?! I'm your only child. The apple of your eyes."
"Debatable."
"What?!"
He shrugged. "Your mother probably owns that title."
"Ew. Gross."
He chuckled. "Only child or not, you still smell like regret and hangover."
"Fine. I'm going. Happy now?"
"Make sure you actually bathe. You know what I mean."
"Daaaad!"
"What?"
"Please stop."
He winked. "At least I made you laugh."
"Ugh. You're so weird."
"You love me."
"Damn right I do," I said, grinning as I headed toward my room.
Mum was still outside with him. I didn't care what they were talking about. As long as I didn't have to see him again.
---
Later that night, Mum came inside and we both apologized. We decided not to argue anymore. Not on my first day back.
And then we all got drunk.
Yes. All three of us. Don't look at me like that.
Perks of being the only child? Your parents drink with you.
Also—I am the apple of their eyes. Don't let Dad's sarcasm fool you.