My Toxin

Chapter 28

The plane touched down at Heathrow, jolting us all back to reality. The chatter and laughter that had filled our flight home began to fade as we stepped into the cool air of London. Santorini already felt like a dream—a sun-drenched bubble where we'd lived our best lives, untethered by responsibilities. But now, reality had returned, heavy and inescapable.

Everyone had something to face. For most of the group, it meant packing up their university accommodations, clearing out their dorm rooms, and making way for the new students. Summer brought transitions, new beginnings, and the inevitable goodbye to the carefree life we'd clung to for so long.

For me and Marjorie, moving wasn't an issue. We'd signed a three-year lease for our student apartment in Oxfordshire, so our things would stay put. But what awaited us in Chelsea was far from a reprieve. Summer with our families was always a performance—a return to the roles we'd been groomed to play since birth.

Marjorie

The Okeke house loomed in its pristine glory, a monument to my parents' expectations. As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother was already calling my name—my middle name, Amara, which she and my father used exclusively at home.

"Amara, come to the kitchen," she ordered. I could hear the clatter of pots and the hum of an oven timer. "We've signed you up to volunteer at the St. Mark's charity gala. It'll look excellent on your CV."

Of course. My summer was always dictated by their version of what was "best for me." I leaned against the doorframe, forcing a polite smile. "Of course, Mum."

My father, ever the disciplinarian, added from behind his newspaper, "And your grades? They're holding, yes? I hope you're prepared for the workload next year. This is no time to be distracted."

I nodded automatically, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. Protests were futile in my household. My parents had built this life brick by brick—Nigerian pride woven into every rule and expectation. Their sacrifices demanded perfection in return, even if it came at the cost of my sanity.

Alex

My father greeted me at breakfast with the kind of statement I'd been dreading since childhood. "Alex, it's time you start learning the business. I've arranged for you to shadow Ms. Hartley this summer. She'll show you everything you need to know about running the bank."

His tone left no room for discussion, though I felt the familiar resentment simmering beneath my calm façade. The Cavendish name carried weight, but it also carried chains. The family bank was my inheritance, my so-called birthright, and though I was good with numbers, this wasn't the life I wanted.

Still, I nodded, knowing better than to argue. "Yes, sir."

Our Escape

Nights became our refuge. While our days were consumed by our parents' demands, Marjorie and I would sneak away after dark, meeting in my mother's meticulously maintained garden. It was the only place where the pressures of our worlds couldn't touch us.

The bench tucked into the garden's corner had become ours—a place to share whispered frustrations, stolen kisses, and dreams of what life could be.

"Do you ever think about what it'd be like if we didn't have all these expectations?" Marjorie asked one evening, her voice barely above a whisper.

"All the time," I admitted. "But I think we'd be lost without them. We don't know anything else."

She gave me a small, sad smile. "Maybe. But sometimes I wish we could just run away."

I laughed softly, brushing a braid from her face. "You make it sound so easy."

"It could be," she said earnestly, her eyes searching mine. "We're adults now, Alex. We could decide to live our lives how we want."

I kissed her then, a soft promise I couldn't put into words. Marjorie had always been braver than me, willing to dream bigger. I was grateful for her courage—it was the only thing keeping me sane.

The Party

August arrived, and with it, the annual Okeke-Cavendish birthday celebration. Our mothers, in their infinite wisdom, had decided years ago that our shared birthday week was the perfect excuse for a lavish joint party. This year was no different.

The Okeke estate was transformed into a scene of opulence. Twinkling lights adorned the garden, a live band played upbeat Afrobeats, and Marjorie's cousins took over the playlist halfway through, seamlessly blending Nigerian classics with Haitian kompa.

The adults lingered inside, networking over champagne, while the younger crowd turned the outdoor space into a full-blown takeover. Marjorie, in a flowing red dress that hugged her perfectly, commanded attention. She was in her element, laughing and dancing, her cousins pulling her into an endless stream of moves she swore she didn't know.

I stood by the edge of the dance floor, watching her with a mix of awe and longing. She caught my eye and walked over, her laughter still bubbling as she reached for my hand. "Come dance with me," she said, her eyes daring me to refuse.

I let her pull me in, the music slowing as a kompa track took over. She moved effortlessly, her body fitting against mine as if we were made for this.

"You look beautiful tonight," I said softly.

"Thank you," she replied, her tone uncharacteristically shy. "And you... you look like you're holding back."

I raised an eyebrow. "Holding back?"

"You've been distant," she said, her voice barely audible over the music. "Since Santorini. I know I've hurt you, Alex. I know I've been... complicated."

I didn't respond right away, the weight of her words settling between us.

"I'm sorry," she continued, her eyes searching mine. "I was scared. Scared of how much I care about you. Scared of ruining this."

I cupped her face, leaning down to whisper, "We're going to be okay. But we both need to work on this—on ourselves."

She nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I'm ready, Alex."

Closing the Night

The party wound down with fireworks, a dazzling display that lit up the night sky. Marjorie and I watched side by side, our fingers intertwined, the world quiet for just a moment.

"Happy birthday," she said softly, leaning her head on my shoulder.

"Happy birthday," I replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

In the glow of the fading fireworks, it didn't matter what awaited us—our families, our responsibilities, or the uncertainties of our future. For now, we were together, and that was enough.