“I’m restless and unsure where to start, beyond planning this wedding.” I laugh, feeling lighter. “Needless to say, after my marriage’s downfall being broadcast for everyone to see, then my being villainized for it, I’ve got trust issues.”
“That’s fair.” Savannah smiles, scribbling something down before meeting my eyes again. “But I also think it’s important to remember that a lot of people are on your side. They’ve commended you for daring to leave a relationship that didn’t work. For daring to be vulnerable and start over.”
“Yeah,” I say, solemnly.
“That takes courage, Ebony.”
“And thick skin,” I add, thinking about the weight of it all. The shame. The fear. The constant stream of vile comments—“You’re giving up,” “You drove him to cheat,” “You refused to give him an heir”—as if he’s some sort of prince instead of just another entitled Ellswood man, adored and revered by the title-seeking, money-hungry women who’ve put him on a pedestal.
Savannah folds her arms across her chest, her gaze sharpening with precision. “Tell me more about that. How doesthick skintranslate for you?”
I huff out a small, salty laugh. “Do you know how humiliating and wrong it feels to be married for almost ten years and then have to get checked for sexually transmitted diseases? To relive his betrayal every time I scroll through social media? The stares, the gossip, the quiet whispering in public?” My breath catches. “I’m mortified. I’ve built iron walls around my heart.”
Savannah’s expression softens, but she doesn’t let up. “Those are two-way walls, though, Ebony. They keep your heart in, but they also keep love out.”
A light bulb flicks on in my head.
She deepens her stare, asking without saying it,Do you want to live a lonely, unromantic life relegatedto planning others’ happily-ever-afters, but never getting yourown?
A groan slips out of me, one of those frustrated, whiny ones that I know isn’t going to make me feel better but somehow does anyway.
I sink back into the sofa, staring up at the gold-speckled ceiling. “Couldn’t I just build a hidden door? With, like, a secret button or something, and only give out the password on a need-to-know basis?”
A knowing glint flashes in Savannah’s eyes. “So romance is still on the table, then?”
Slouching deeper into the cushions—my mother would have a conniption if she saw my posture—I glance at Savannah, already sensing the action plan brewing in her deep-set brown eyes. She’s too good at compartmentalizing my chaotic life into fun-sized chunks.
“It’s on the kids’ table,” I squeak out with a shaky smile. “Right now, all I’m hoping for is a genuine connection. Whenever the good Lord sees fit.”
In the way only Savannah can, she lays out my next steps with precision.
She sets me to the task of brainstorming solutions for each of my current struggles, breaking them into manageable, practical, actionable goals. One of my longest-standing best friends ghosts me? Write a letter in my journal, lending words to the hurt and sadness it’s caused, then later call her when emotions aren’t running so high. Create a “calming water sounds” playlist to release the anger.No more hiccups.Nervous about reentering the wedding circuit after a long absence and underhanded moves by Cornelia Livingston? Get your bag but go back to basics—meet with clients, consult with vendors, and pull out the trusty checklists. Take it one task at a time. And avoid the monster-in-law as often as possible. The ex-files? Show myself grace in a daily gratitude journal.
All of which feels reasonable.
But then she hits me with the kicker.
I jolt upright, eyes wide. “Homework? You mean, like, aside from the goals, you want me to turn in an assignment?”
Savannah’s full pink lips curve up as she slides her notepad across the coffee table, then leans back against the sofa.
Reluctantly, I peer over the page, scanning her beautifully swirly penmanship. At the top, our next session date—Wednesday, June eighteenth—is underscored three times, which I’m guessing means that the slot is nonnegotiable. But then my attention shifts to the three bullet points listed on the first few lines—includingtest the dating waters.
My gaze snaps to hers.
“As in, sign up for a dating app or goonan actual date?” I ask, my heart skittering a bit at the prospect of opening myself up to the unhinged world of dating I’ve read horror stories about on social media. Coffee is one thing, but waking up to my living room covered in tarp because I accidentally invited Dexter into my home? Absolutely not.
Savannah shrugs, evidently amused by the sheer panic I’m sure is smeared all over my face. “Yes, you can explore dating apps, or take the organic routes—mixers, speed dating. I’ll send you my dating concierge contact, if privacy is a concern,” she says nonchalantly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Perhaps you’ll meet someone in passing or at the supermarket. Maybe you’ve got a friend who wants to introduce you to someone nice.”
“Maybe not.” I laugh. “But okay…” I trail off, considering the next bullet point.
Planthe Winston/Livingston wedding like it’s the last you’ll plan.
The corners of my mouth tug downward, my lower lip protruding slightly. Maybe thinking of it as just one wedding will make it feel more manageable. I can maximize my network of contacts and resources. If being a forever debutante and the Ellswood face of a divorcée has taught me anything, it’s how to be graceful under pressure. I’m a lady first. One who doesn’t air out her grievances publicly. One of composure, restraint, and elegance.
Not that my wardrobe has reflected as much lately.
“This one’s fine,” I say, reaching for the pen to add a “rebrand my image” bullet point at the bottom of the list, but my focus stutters on Savannah’s third homework assignment, and I gasp. “Um, we are twinning, my friend. ‘Brainstorm a personal project to channel your inner divatante—’”
