More Than Pretend - Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ava

Atlanta, Georgia

“Girl, you look like you need this more than I do.” With a glass of red wine in one hand and the bottle in the other, Somto strolled to my small work-from-home corner in the living room.

“I didn’t know it was that obvious,” I said. I set aside my sketches and closed the tab on my romance book review Instagram post draft, except for the Excel spreadsheet, formally titled Life Plans 2023, which was anything but whimsical.

After handing me the glass, she took a generous gulp straight from the bottle. I couldn’t help but smile as I accepted the wine, letting the deep ruby liquid swirl in my glass before taking a sip.

My roommate — the life of every party — balanced her charisma on six-inch heels, while I was wearing a soft, oversized sweater with a pair of leggings that had seen better days—my freelancer’s uniform. The look was perfected by my fuzzy slippers, always ready for a surprise Zoom call from the ankles up.

Somto plopped down across from me. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “What’s wrong, spreadsheet got your tongue? Or are you busy recalibrating your life’s algorithms?”

I chuckled, “Always, you know me. I can’t let these spreadsheets go astray. They might end up doing reckless things like me, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“Why do you sound like you’re wondering about the mysteries of the universe? Abeg, don’t tell me you’re updating that ‘Life Plans spreadsheet’ again.”

“No, but close. I just got an email about the Next Best Graphic Design Competition. It’s officially open, girl!”

“You sef! And you’ve not clicked the apply button?”

“I haven’t applied yet. I'm just imagining how I’d embarrass myself while announcing the win on my bookstagram. You know me, always planning.”

“Ah, you and planning, I forgot. One day, you’ll plan how you’ll trip over air.”

“That is exactly why I need to think this through. I’ll apply when I’m ready, not a moment before. Got it?”

“Alright, alright, you win. You and know the competition is a stepping stone into the publishing world.”

I nodded.

“But if you win this competition, I swear I will finally eat your jollof rice, prayer, or no prayer. Deal?”

On my life spreadsheet, I was already plotting where to slot in the Apply to Design Competition, between Find True Love and Convince Somto My Cooking Doesn’t Need Divine Intervention. “Yes, ma,” I laughed.

She burst into laughter, her face animated in the glow of the warm room lighting. “Ava, you probably have a spreadsheet for your spreadsheets.”

I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my wine. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

Somto’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Talking of bad ideas, where’s Mr. Right? Davis hasn’t appeared in what, two weeks? I swear you plan for everything but that man.”

I laughed at myself as I tried to ignore the slight shift in the mood. The words hung heavier than I’d have liked. My fingers nervously wrapped around the glass stem. “He’s been busy, work stuff,” I muttered. It sounded more like a question, even to my ears.

“You’re sure it’s work and not ‘work,’” she said, air-quoting with her fingers, then reverted to pidgin — a linguistic dance of English and local dialect, “Make you shine your eyes well-well, oh.”

I forced a laugh. “Don’t worry, I have my eyes wide open.”

Somto raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Or is that just another unchecked box on your life plan spreadsheet?”

The wine was hitting, but not enough to cloud the unsettled feeling crawling up my spine. I looked at Somto, her eyes gleaming but sincere, and for a second, my meticulously planned world seemed a little less certain.

The warm, amber lighting bathed the room, highlighting Somto’s caramel skin and the golden highlights in her curly, shoulder-length hair. She placed the wine bottle on the coffee table with a soft clunk. Leaning back onto the plush couch, she gave me a level stare. Her eyes always seemed to peer right into my soul. She was the epitome of confidence and carefree spirit, her essence a striking contrast to my world of structured plans and checkboxes.

“Today has just been wild,” I told her.

“Why? Did Grandma call again?”

I laughed. “Yeah, and apparently, she has a list of fine men — fresh like wine — as she put it.”

“Omo, Grandma is not playing!” Somto exclaimed, doubling over in laughter. “She’s got drafts for the big leagues!”

It was both hilarious and touching, knowing that my grandma was matchmaking from across the Atlantic. Yet, it also layered on the pressure to fit into a life template I hadn’t chosen. One that did not align with the one meticulously laid out on my Excel spreadsheet.

“Mine sends Bible verses and memes.”

“She means well, but sometimes it’s like I’m on a ticking clock,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Then my cousin’s wedding is coming up, and Luchi, as the big sister, wants me there.”

Her eyes met mine. “Hey, your time is your own, okay? Not Grandma’s, not Luchi’s. Yours.”

Luchi was a tough act to follow—a brilliant lawyer living the Nigerian dream, as Grandma would say, back home. I was the baby of the family, taking the scenic route through life, one design and a bookstagram post at a time.

Somto leaned in, her eyes sparkling. “I smell an opportunity for your bookstagram—new settings, fresh faces, authentic outfits! You could do a whole series!”

I laughed. “A ‘Nigerian Wedding Series’ has a ring to it. But seriously, I need to book that flight, or Luchi will have my head.”

Somto nudged me. “Do it now. What could possibly go wrong? It was part of your spreadsheet plan, anyway.”

Lists were the breadcrumbs through the forest of my frenetic life — career goals, love life, personal development — each category segmented neatly, awaiting their checkboxes of completion.

“Look, Ava,” she began, resting her arm along the back of the couch, “I’m not knocking your lifestyle, but life can’t always fit neatly into a spreadsheet. And as for Davis, if he can’t make time for you, then he’s the one who doesn’t fit into your Life Plans 2023. If you ask me, I think he’s cheating on you.”

I let my gaze drift to that spreadsheet still open on my iMac behind me. A digital fortress of ambitions, it suddenly seemed a little too cold and sterile. “He’s not, Somto,” I admitted, my voice tinged with reluctance.

Somto picked up the bottle and refilled my glass. “No wahala, but seriously, you dey try too hard to plan life. Sometimes, you for let things flow naturally. Try letting go a little. Life might surprise you in the best ways.”

“I’ll go see him tomorrow. It’s just his job,” I said while I stared at my silent phone. I set my phone face-down. My eyes drifted to a framed picture of Mum and me, a painful reminder that the one person who could help me sort this out was gone.

Before I could drown myself in thoughts of ‘what-ifs,’ my phone buzzed. My heart leaped—I knew Davis would come through. I looked at the phone; it wasn’t him but an Instagram notification.

I sighed.

Maybe life’s uncertainties weren’t a sign of a flawed plan, but opportunities for unexpected joy. It's a chance to rewrite, redesign, and perhaps even fall in love again — with life and its beautifully chaotic script.

The next afternoon, I was in front of Davis’ apartment, my heart pounding against my chest. What if Somto was right? My breath caught in my throat as I shook my head. She couldn’t be.

Before leaving the car, I finished my Perfect Book Boyfriends series on IG Live. “So that’s a wrap for me tonight. See you all next Friday.”

As a romance book influencer, I’d been showing my followers how the books I’ve shared with them had inspired me to search for my own book boyfriend and the perfect five-year plan — get a graphic design job at a publishing house, find The One, get married and have my very own HEA. When I met Davis, I knew he was the one. After all, my twenty thousand followers agreed based on the live stories I shared about the relationship.

Walking up to Davis’ apartment, I clutched the key he’d given me — his way of making me feel I mattered a few months ago. It felt heavy in my hand, like a promise on the verge of breaking. I remembered how he’d casually handed it to me, a supposed symbol of trust, when I pressed him about his frequent traveling the last time.

The hallway was silent as I reached his door. I turned the key in the lock, and my heart thumped with a mix of dread and hope. The door nudged open too easily, as if it hadn’t been properly closed. A flicker of worry crossed my mind. The unease in my stomach was growing. Why was it not locked?

I stepped inside, and my eyes immediately fell on the chaos in the living room. It was a stark contrast to the usual meticulousness of Davis’ place. Clothes were strewn haphazardly across the sofa. A shirt, pants, a pair of black boxers. It's like he frantically stripped down in the living room. But then, as I scanned the room, my eyes snagged on something else.

A pair of underwear.

Women's underwear.

They weren't Davis's and they sure as hell weren't mine.

I picked them up, my heart sinking. They were delicate, lacy — and obviously not mine. A cold realization began to set in. My gaze swept across the room, taking in the unfamiliar display, each piece of clothing a silent testament to the betrayal unfolding before me.

I strolled towards the kitchen; my eyes landed on the two wine glasses on the counter. When I looked closer, I found one with a red lipstick stain. I felt nauseous. Before I knew it, I approached the bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar. With shaking hands, I pushed it wide open, my eyes darting to the bed.

There was Davis, blissfully snoring under the duvet, his arm draped over a naked woman.

My brain short-circuited as I tried to process the sight before me.

Breath quickening, I marched to the bed and yanked the blankets off with a shrill scream.

“What the —” Davis muttered, rubbing his eyes. I slapped him before he could even look in my direction. “What was that for?” He groaned, rubbing his eyes again as he fully woke up, realizing who was standing before him.

“This!” I yelled and pointed to the half-awake lady next to him.

The young woman sat up and stared at me with her arms folded tightly over her bare breasts. “Who is she?”

“Oh, Lord. I can’t wait to hear your answer. Yes, Davis, who am I?” I asked with one hand on my waist and the other pointed in his face.

He looked at me and then back at her. “Err-I-Sh —” he stuttered, realizing the situation he was in.

I could see the wheels turning in his head to get a reasonable explanation.

“She is a friend of mine,” he told the woman. “Do you remember the person I told you about? The one I submitted that project to?” She nodded warily. “That’s her.”

A strangled, humorless laugh forced its way out. “Davis, I’m just a colleague now? One who has been warming up your bed every night for the past six months?” I let out a sharp breath. “You know what? I’m done.”

My eyes became heavy with tears. Within a few moments, my entire life crumbled before my eyes. I stormed out of the apartment toward the car and left the memories Davis and I shared at his door. Six months of happiness. Of love. Or was it just a fantasy?

My life with him had begun like the sweet melody of a blackbird, full of promise, hope, and happiness to come. Now, it sat like a cold cup of coffee waiting to be thrown away. If only I had known he would treat me this way. How could I not see the signs? Was I that blinded by love and lust?

My phone vibrated, and when I saw the text from Somto that popped up, my heart sank. Ava, you’re still live on IG!!!!! Abort!

My face was a wet mess as I scrambled into my car, parked haphazardly in front of Davis’ apartment. I was shaking so much that I fumbled with my phone and ended the Instagram Live I didn’t even know had started. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I muttered under my breath, my voice quivering like a strangled guitar string.

I drove back home on autopilot. My thoughts were an uproar, every neuron firing off questions and recriminations that made my head ache. My clenched fingers barely relaxed on the steering wheel when I parked in my usual spot outside my apartment building.

When I entered the living room, my eyes immediately darted to my phone screen. It lit up like a Christmas tree—text messages, notifications, missed calls. The lock screen displayed messages from my bookstagram followers, friends, and even people I hadn’t talked to in years.

What happened, Ava?

Are you okay?

Girl, spill the tea!

My hands trembled as I put my phone face down on the table. For a split second, I forgot to breathe. Even if only virtually, the weight of everyone’s eyes felt like it was crushing me. The pleasant ambiance of my apartment turned into an overwhelming feeling.

Tears started flowing freely again as the reality of what had just happened sank in. I was in the living room surrounded by love stories on my bookshelf, feeling like a sad character in a bad plot. My shoulders slumped, and a sob escaped my lips as I collapsed onto my sofa. All my meticulous plans, my carefully curated life—blown up in a single moment. I wished the ground would open and swallow me whole.

The front door swung open, and Somto burst into the room like a tropical storm. “Ava! I’m so sorry.”

Somto’s eyes met mine, widening as they took in my disheveled state. She was as stunning as ever, with her caramel complexion glowing in the apartment's warm lighting. However, the concern in her eyes was more pronounced. She quickly moved a stack of takeout boxes to one side of the kitchen counter and made her way to me.

“Here,” she said, shoving a tissue box into my hands before busying herself with the electric kettle. I caught her subtly pushing the wine bottle behind a potted plant on the counter. Clever girl. She knew I’d guzzle it down in this state. Instead, she opted for tea. A few minutes later, the aroma of chamomile wafted through the air as she handed me a steaming cup.

I took a sip, and the warmth seemed to temper the icy knots in my stomach. “You really should consider changing professions, you know? From event planning to crisis management,” I tried to joke, but my voice broke halfway.

Somto sat beside me.

The atmosphere changed as soon as she locked eyes with me again, her concern drenched in knowing sadness. She looked at my phone, which was a pulsing hotbed of notifications.

“You’ve seen the comments, haven’t you?” I said, my voice cracking, eyes reluctantly meeting hers.

She sat down next to me, enveloping me in a comforting hug. “Yeah, I saw Ava. I’m so sorry, love.”

“Thank you for the tea, but what I could really use is a cup of unfiltered wisdom right now,” I choked out, setting down my cup and sniffling.

Somto looked at me. Her eyes still echoed concern but softer now, like the edge of a candle’s flame. “Girl, maybe this is the universe telling you to stop relying so much on plans and start living a little. You can’t control everything, you know? Love’s not a design project you can perfect. Life’s messy, unpredictable, and your spreadsheets aren’t gonna capture that.”

I was about to delve into a self-pitied retort when her phone buzzed abruptly, scattering the weight of the moment. “Hold that thought,” she said, picking up her phone. “It’s Tunde. There’s some crisis at tomorrow’s venue. Can’t ignore this one.”

She answered, and flipped instantly into work mode, her voice tinged with the professional pidgin she reserved for her event planning gigs. I caught snippets of her conversation about floral arrangements and a mix-up with the caterers.

I stared at my lukewarm tea, mulling over her words. They lingered in my head, muddling with my anxious thoughts, creating mental chaos that oddly made sense. It may be time to burn down the neatly columned plans and start anew.

Somto hung up and her eyes found me again. “Had to put out some fires. Now, where were we?”

“In the midst of tossing my perfectly crafted plans into an imaginary bonfire,” I said, smiling.

Somto grinned. “That’s the spirit. You need to live, Ava. Really live. Start by healing, and who knows, maybe you’ll find something—or someone—along the way.”

Her words settled over me like a warm blanket, comforting yet unsettling, as if I had been asleep for a long time and was only waking up. I took a deep breath. “You’re right, Som. Maybe it’s time to start a new chapter, and for once, not know how it ends.”

She went to the kitchen to make some food. Still, my heart felt heavy, an unwelcome stone lodged in my chest. But Somto’s words had sparked something. A restless energy replaced the paralyzing heartache. What if I could get away and find myself in new places again? My eyes flickered to my home office, a space I had always considered a refuge, now pulsing with untapped possibilities.

“I need to do something for myself,” I mumbled and marched over to my desk. My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I dove in. I navigated through the airline website, my clicks becoming more assertive as I reached the booking page. Before I could second-guess myself, I confirmed a one-way ticket to Nigeria for my cousin’s wedding. A month early.

As the confirmation flashed on the screen, my pulse surged with a blend of anxiety and exhilaration. “Nigeria, here I come.” New scenery, new perspectives, and hopefully, a new me. A sense of relief flooded through me.

Somto sauntered back in, the aromatic scent of fried plantains and egg sauce wafting from the kitchen. “Ava, food is ready o. Come and eat!”

“I just booked a flight to Nigeria. I’m leaving next week,” I blurted out, almost in a whisper, like saying it louder would make it too real to reverse.

She paused, her eyes widening, then breaking into a grin. “Ah, so you wan carry your wahala go Naija? They don’t even know what’s coming!”

I laughed, a genuine laugh that felt like a sigh of relief. “Taking my problem with me to Nigeria is what I need now. And who knows? Maybe it’s what Nigeria needs too.”

“Trust me, girl, Nigeria has its own brand of chaos. But if there’s anyone who can make sense of it all, it’s you,” she said, her eyes glowing with a warmth that could rival the Lagos sun.

“You think this is a good idea? I mean, it’s pretty impulsive, even for me,” I questioned, momentarily second-guessing as I looked into Somto’s reassuring eyes.

She paused and took a deep breath. “Look, sometimes the best decisions are the ones we don’t overthink. You need this — a break from everything here, especially after… you know,” she hesitated.

“Yeah, after playing the fool on IG, for everyone to see. I get it,” I sighed, rubbing my temples as if that could erase the memory.

“Hey, no negative self-talk allowed, okay? He deceived you, and it's not your fault. Nigeria might just be your reset button,” Somto asserted, her voice firm but comforting. She leaned forward, resting her arm on the table. “Stop worrying, Ava, you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

“True. But what if Grandma starts her matchmaking antics the moment I land?” I laughed nervously, imagining Grandma’s list of ‘eligible bachelors fresh like wine.’

Somto chuckled, “Oh, she will! But think about it, you’ll be among family and old friends. Plus, Nigerian parties are the best, and you need some enjoyment in your life.”

“You’re right. And honestly, I could do with some enjoyment that isn’t planned down to the last detail in a Google Doc,” I admitted, letting out a half-laugh.

“There’s my girl! Embrace the chaos that is life,” Somto cheered, lifting her arm for a high-five, which I gladly returned.

“Chaos, here I come. But first, let’s eat. I have a feeling I’ll need all the energy I can get,” I said, my voice tinged with newfound excitement.

“Ah, correct! Let’s fuel up. Nigeria won’t know what hit it,” Somto beamed, leading the way to the kitchen.

As we ate, I felt a mixture of fear and relief. My need for control wrestled with the tantalizing idea of letting go, even for a little while. My gut this time told me it was time to let life happen without a roadmap.

And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.