A Shattered Peace
David's hands shook as he gripped the phone, his fingers pressing so hard against the plastic that his knuckles turned white. The words coming from the other end of the line hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath.
"What? How did this happen?" His voice was barely above a whisper, cracking under the weight of the news.
Favour's voice was soft, hesitant, as if she was afraid to say too much. "I don't really know the full details… but from what I could gather, he was shot at while in his place of work."
Each word felt like a stone dropped into David's chest, sinking deeper and deeper. His father—gone. Just like that. No warning. No goodbye.
"I'm so sorry, David. I really am. I didn't even know," Favour murmured, her voice laced with pity.
He could hear it—the way she hesitated, the way she softened her tone, as if she was afraid of hurting him more. But it didn't help. Nothing could.
"It's alright, Favour. Don't worry about it," he lied, forcing his voice to stay steady.
There was a brief pause, and then, just like that, her tone changed—light, almost careless, as if the conversation about his father had never happened.
"So, I saw your invitation," she chirped. "And don't you think it's too early for a party? Since you just lost your dad?"
David stiffened. Something about her voice didn't sound right. It wasn't concern—it was something else. Excitement? Anticipation? As if she was hiding her eagerness behind a thin layer of sympathy.
He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. "No, it's not too early. To be honest, this party will help me take my mind off this tragic experience. It'll temporarily ease the pain… the tears."
Favour didn't hesitate. "Alright. So, will there be alcohol?"
The question hit him like a slap. His fingers tightened around the phone again. "Sorry, Favour, but I made a promise to Mum. I won't allow alcohol at the party."
Her response was sharp, demanding. "Listen, David. If you want me to attend the party, there must be drinks—and it must be alcohol. Besides, you can't possibly forget about your pain if you don't drink a little."
David's breath caught in his throat. This wasn't the Favour he knew. She wasn't even eighteen yet—same age as him. They'd been to countless parties together, but never once had he seen her drink. Never once had she asked for it.
His mind raced. He had to make a choice—and fast. On one side: his promise to his mother. On the other: Favour's ultimatum. And he needed her there. Because this wasn't just any party.
This party was going to be the night he finally asked her out.
The night he hoped to steal his very first kiss.
"Hello? Hello? Hey, David, are you still there?" Favour's voice snapped him back to reality.
"Oh, sorry, Favour. I was just… lost in thought," he muttered.
"So?" she pressed. "Will there be alcohol or not?"
He could hear it now—the impatience, the hunger in her voice. She didn't care about his promise. She didn't care about his grief.
All she wanted was the alcohol.
And all he wanted was her.
"Yes, Favour," he finally said, the words bitter on his tongue. "There will be alcohol."
Her squeal of delight was instantaneous. "Thank you, David! And also… David?"
"Yes?"
"I love you. Bye, bye!"
The line went dead.
David stood frozen, his heart pounding. Did she just say…? A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face. Shock and elation warred inside him. She loves me?
"Wow," he whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "What just happened?"
Then, with a dark chuckle, he added, "Sorry, Mom. But I'll have to break your rules… and my promises."
Because now? If he asked Favour out, she would definitely say yes.
The Price of a Party
The moment he ended the call with Favour, David sprang into action. He pulled out his phone, opened their group chat, and typed:
"Alcohol will be served at the party."
Before he could even lock his screen, his phone exploded with notifications—65 replies, 200 likes, and a flood of new RSVPs. Everyone was coming now.
Just because of the alcohol.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. Their lifestyles disgusted him—the way they chased after cheap thrills, the way they cared more about getting drunk than about him, about his loss.
But he didn't care.
Because the only thing that mattered was Favour.
The party? The guests? The alcohol?
All of it was bullshit.
Only she was real.
To Be Continued.