Page 5 of Ripe & Ready (Friction Fiction #1)

T he ride into the village is worse than any theme park ride I’ve ever been on.

The Land Rover is rattling, metal-on-metal loud, and the road’s basically a suggestion. Because of heavy rainfall, we keep getting stuck in puddles and potholes that feel way too deep for a vehicle that is, allegedly, four-wheel drive

Like… isn’t that the whole point?

I bounce in my seat, grip the door, and try not to throw up or launch myself into the tree line. Derek’s sitting there as if this is a relaxing Uber ride through the suburbs.

Eventually we arrive to a quiet and modest village made of a handful of wooden buildings with tin roofs and wide porches that look like they’ve seen some stories. As we turn the corner, we pass under a big banner that says Welcome to Mbomo and the truck slows down.

A few kids come running out. Laughing, kicking around a beat-up soccer ball, doing that effortless weaving-around-each-other thing kids do when they’ve got more energy than sense.

Some pause to watch us pass, wide-eyed and curious, before returning to their game as we roll into the heart of the village.

We pull up to a building with sun-faded pale blue doors.

Inside, it’s this open-air shop that feels part convenience, part hangout spot.

They’ve got everything you could possibly need from a general store in a small bustling village.

Canned goods, gallon jugs of water, bags of rice, and enough instant noodles to fuel a small army.

A small island in the center of the shop is nothing but produce.

Boxes stacked high full of locally grown fruits and vegetables.

In the back corner, there’s a tiny TV with a built-in VHS player doing its best. It’s playing what I think is an action movie.

Lots of yelling and explosions, but the static’s doing more work than the actual plot.

Still, it’s charming and welcoming and bursting with this quiet, infectious kind of joy.

This place just is, and that’s more than enough.

I step inside, instantly grateful for the shade. Outside, the village is bright and humming with life. Inside, it’s cooler, quieter, still.

Outside, I spot Derek digging into his backpack. He pulls out a couple of large gallon-sized ziplock bags packed to the brim with school supplies. Pens, pencils, notebooks, crayons, little rulers all lined up neatly. Leave it to Derek to turn his reckless energy into something weirdly coordinated.

He hands the supplies to Obed, who smiles, nods, and claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder in thanks. The donation is a small gesture, easy to miss. He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t look around to see who’s watching. He does it like it’s second nature.

I hadn’t even known he brought them.

Before my heart stops doing whatever it’s doing he turns, catches me staring like an idiot, and jogs over to the shop.

“What do you say we grab some snacks?” He says it super casual because all of this makes sense to him. It’s like he belongs here. Like he belongs everywhere.

“Sure. Snacks. That’s... a normal thing to do,” I say, full sentences evading me.

I’m still reeling. Not from the heat or the overwhelming humanity of this tiny village, but from him. The way he’s kind without even trying. The way it’s so deeply ingrained in him that it doesn’t read as noble or selfless or showy. For him, it’s as natural as breathing.

He’s always been like that. It’s what love looks like on him.

Even when we were kids, he used to pack extra snacks in his backpack. Not the crusty, off-brand granola bars either… like, the good stuff. Fruit snacks that didn’t taste like wax. Trail mix with actual M&Ms.

At first, I thought it was because he was a human garbage disposal, but then I started noticing the way he handed them out at recess.

Quietly. No big moment. No “look at me being generous.” Just..

. casual kindness. Sometimes to friends.

Sometimes to kids who didn’t have much in their lunchbox.

He never waited for a thank you. He never expected anything back.

I remember once, in fourth grade, a kid from the next class over forgot their lunch on a field trip. Derek didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his entire sandwich, handed it over, and shrugged like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter that he’d be hungry the rest of the day.

I knew where it came from. His parents were always those “teach by doing” types. I saw it at his house. His mom leaving care packages for neighbors, his dad fixing someone’s car in the driveway for free. They didn’t preach about being kind. They just were.

Derek soaked it up like sunlight.

He was always the guy who thought about other people. Who planned ahead for things that might go wrong, not because he was anxious, like me, but because he wanted to make sure no one felt left behind.

That alone feels like its own kind of bravery.

Choosing kindness in a world full of awful, and still being able to recognize it in someone else.

To give everyone around you a piece of yourself to keep things steady, to keep their happiness intact without ever asking for anything in return. That’s what he does.

He shows up. Over and over and over again.

No one really shows up for me.

I think about what he said when we got here and it stings. More than I want to admit.

Could that really be true?

Could someone like Derek, who lights up every room, who laughs with his whole chest, who gives so openly it looks effortless, really feel alone in all of it?

I know I’ve tried to show up. I have. Even when it scared the shit out of me. Even when it meant leaving everything I knew behind, stepping onto a plane for the first time in my life, flying halfway across the world to sweat beside him in the jungle.

That has to count for something, right?

But still… what if he meant it? What if no one else does? What if he’s been carrying that quiet disappointment for years, the kind that settles deep in your bones until it feels like part of who you are?

Derek gives everything. His time, his energy, his affection. He does it without keeping score, without asking for anything back. But maybe he’s still hoping someone will return the favor enough to prove he doesn’t have to hold the weight of the world alone.

He’d never ask. He’d never demand anything. He’d keep smiling, keep showing up, keep being exactly who he is... while quietly wondering if anyone’s ever going to show up for him.

Maybe that’s why I’m here. I think I’ve been trying to be the person who notices. The one who shows up without needing to be asked.

“I love you.” I blurt it. No build-up. No warning. Not even to myself.

Derek stops mid-step and spins around to face me, eyes wide like I dropped a live grenade between us.

“I just—” I scramble, my voice way too fast, too high. “I just thought you should know. I appreciate you. I don’t know if I tell you that enough.”

It’s not a full recovery. Not even close, but it’s something.

And then, he breaks into this smile. Blinding. Warm. Effortless. It’s honestly more than a smile, it’s confirmation that even when your heart is hanging out of your mouth everything’s okay.

“I love you too,” he says, and those words, leaving his mouth send me to another plane of existence. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

He spins back toward the store while I stand there processing my own emotional implosion in broad daylight.

He grabs a bushel of bananas off a nearby display. “Are you cramping after that hike? Potassium might help. We’ve got another day of it tomorrow.”

I nod, because what else can I do? Everything in me glitches. I may never speak in full sentences again. I told him I love him and not in the way I always planned, either. Not quiet. Not reflective. Not with him having some grand, sweeping reaction.

He acknowledged it, sure, but there was no dramatic kiss. No emotional monologue. He didn’t run into my arms like a rom-com lead. And I know I’m overthinking it. We’re literally trying to buy bananas and instant noodles in a tiny general store in the middle of Africa.

But a small part of me expected him to pause and to let those words hang in the air a little longer. Let them marinate. Instead, he went right back to the task at hand, like I hadn’t said something that cracked my entire chest open.

Friends say “I love you” all the time, right? Maybe this way was better. Safer. Easier to slip out when it can still be passed off as friendly.

Even if I didn’t really mean it that way.

He tosses a few bags of coconut chips into the basket, then adds two more bags of plantain chips for good measure. Brings them all up to the counter, flashes a smile at the man running the shop, and pays without hesitation.

Then he turns to me like everything is still exactly the same.

And maybe it is. Or maybe it isn’t.

Either way, he leads me back to the truck, snacks in hand, and I follow, quiet, uncertain, and still buzzing from the three words that slipped out without permission.

Maybe that’s the thing about love. Sometimes you don’t plan it. Sometimes you don’t time it right. Sometimes you say it and hope it lands somewhere safe.