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‘Come on, Scotch,’ Malakai whispers to me as he joins me behind the counter in the open-plan kitchen of the boys’ villa as I pour myself a tequila lemonade. ‘Lighten up.’

‘I’m light. I’m a fucking featherweight even though my carefully configured schedule has been drowned out by Moët, Casamigos and the inherent horniness of our friends,’ I say as I pour liquor into a tumbler, watching both the bridal party and the groom’s party enjoy an impromptu karaoke session, each with a beverage in hand. Aminah and Kofi, so sickeningly in love, were surprised but delighted to see each other and assumed that Malakai and I had planned it this way, so we were beholden to pretend it was a stroke of genius, an ode to love and friendship, and not the fact that Taré owns two neighbouring properties in Cape Town and a heart so big that all the generosity doesn’t seem to leave much room for logic. She offered the house next to us to the groom’s party, supposedly not thinking anything of it, and not mentioning thatIhad staked a claim first. Malakai and I, still on stilted speaking terms, and overwhelmed withPhoenixwork, hadn’t communicated where we were planning our respective pre-wedding parties, leading to this: my worst nightmare.

We were supposed to leave for the beach club where the festival is happening an hour ago, but after the initial shock, the boys invited us to join them for pre-drinks and pre-drinks became drinks and drinks became karaoke and karaoke is soon going to morph into an orgy if the way Laide is looking Kofi’s cousin in the eye as she sings along to ‘Goodies’ – whilst mimicking Ciara’s exact choreography – is anything to go by.

Malakai releases a low chuckle, brushing behind me to go to the fridge for a bottle of mixer. I ignore the frisson that fizzes through my form as he moved, his chest against my back. ‘Kiki, it’s a South African house festival. It’s only 11p.m. We’re good. And, anyways, you were definitely in free-spirit mode earlier.’ He leans against the counter next to me as I mix my drink. ‘Is that you, yeah?Streaking?Can’t lie, I’m impressed.’

I sidle a look at him, tilt my head to the side. ‘Why, you think you’re the only one who can get me naked? Conceited.’

‘I meant in public.’ His eyes darken, and because I know the kaleidoscope of his orbs, I see the grit of delightful dirt glitter like gold in them. ‘I know what you’re capable of in private.’ He brings a beer to his lips, and looks at me from above the rim, lids falling heavy like black-out blinds, trying to conceal the glare of his thoughts. My mum’s favourite movie of all time isSound of Music. We watch it at every Christmas without fail. Now, a refrain whirls in my mind.How do you solve a problem like Malakai? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?Because there are several facts that, together, form a conundrum:

Fact 1: Malakai is attracted to me.

Fact 2: Malakai is so drastically hot and cold that right-wing nutters might deny he exists.

Fact 3: Neither of us have actually confronted our break-up fully.

Bonus fact: he looks vexingly sexy tonight.

He’s wearing an ecru Cuban-collared shirt with navy bògòlanfini stitching on it, paired with black jeans that fit him so right I’m jealous of them. His gold chain glints on his neck, lazy, assured of its place, nestled amongst a slight smattering of chest hair. I want to lie where it lies. He smells good too, his oaky amber scent wafting towards me as he brings the bottle down next to where I’m making my drink.

‘But anyway.’ A milder mischief twinkles in his eye. ‘What were you even doing knocking on the door of a villa of strange men?’

I shrug, stir my drink with the straw in my cup, sip. ‘Thought we’d introduce ourselves. Be neighbourly.’

‘Neighbourly,’ Malakai repeats with dry scepticism.

‘You know. Borrow a cup of sugar. Lend a cup of sugar.’ I cast an eye out to the party unfolding before us. Aminah has clambered on Kofi’s back like a marmoset to a branch, and they are now singing ‘My Boo’, booming like they have a Vegas residency. They’re suitably distracted so I venture recklessly, irresponsibly, ‘Be the cup of sugar.’

A cloud floats over Malakai’s face. ‘Are you joking, Kiki?’ The atmosphere between us gets confusingly chillier. We’re not on good terms, but, still, I thought we had a tacit agreement to not make things weird for our best friends’ respective pre-wedding parties.

I angle a brow. ‘What does it matter if I am or not?’

‘You can do whatever you want. I just didn’t have you pegged as a cheater.’

‘Wait,what? What are you on about?’

Malakai pauses, his eyes flicking across my face and lighting a streak of fire through my body. It’s hurt and want all bound up in one, and I know the look way too well. It’s etched into the back of my mind so clearly that I know all its contours.

‘Kiki, I saw you. At Sákárà. With your ex. If I can even still call him that. Telling each other you loved each other. You’re really gonna lie to my face?’ His words are low, coming out like blunt bullets before they can backfire.

Jagged jigsaw pieces cascade in my mind, slotting into place. Was this why he was being so colossally strange at the shoot? And why he was so stilted over text that night? I throw a casual glance to our friends. They’re egging Aminah on, and I join them with a well-timed, ‘You better sing it, Meenz!’ I look back up at Malakai, who’s blinking bewilderment at me. ‘Malakai, Bakari and I were saying goodbye to each other. We’re over. Like, for good. And we do love each other. In a way. Just not in the way that a relationship needs in order to function.’

Malakai looks like a thunderbolt struck him. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Why would I lie about that? And if you actually bothered to–’ I lower my voice, hoping that our friends think this increasingly heated discussion is because we’re getting intense over which one of us will give a speech first at the wedding–‘talkto me, you might know that.’

Malakai stares at me in confusion. ‘Kiki, ever since we slept together, you basically told me to leave you alone. I was respecting your wishes.’

Chioma, doing an extended bit, is singing ‘Call Tyrone’ by Erykah Badu, which the crowd–namely Shanti–adores, loudly, and it provides the perfect cover for our conversation and my incredulous, ‘Are youjoking,Kai? Why wouldn’t I want to get out of there when you basically said I was awelcome bangfor you in London? You know how people go to Hawaii and get a lei when they arrive at their resorts? You basically called me a lay lei!’

Malakai looks like he’s about to speak, face indignant, before he catches himself, picks up a jumbo pack of tortilla chips and pours it on the floor.

I frown at him. ‘What are you doing? Are you throwing atantrum?’

Malakai squints his eyes at me. ‘No, Kiki. I’m providing us with an alibi,’ he says quietly, before projecting loudly, rigidly, ‘Ah, shit. Dropped the crisps. Kiki, can you help me pick them up? They’re everywhere. I can’t find the broom.’

I have to hand it to him, it’s kind of genius. I’m impressed. We both dip to the floor, behind the cabinets, as I proceed to not hand it to him. ‘Porno acting.’