“Or divorcétante?” Savannah dips her chin like she feels the synergy in the air.
I toss her a conspiratorial grin, because we are most definitely vibing on the same bandwidth.
“Ilovethe sound of that.” I scoot to the edge of the sofa, bubbling with excitement. “I was just thinking if I’m reentering the red-carpet world of illustrious events and whatnot, and I’m about to be out here hobnobbing with Ellswood’s finest eligible bachelors, I might need to revamp my image. Reconsider what style guide embodies the true me. You know, the new, fabulous look for the new and improved Ebony Grace? But please, say more.”
Her laugh is anything but delicate. “It’ll be your grand reintroduction to society,” she declares, theatrically fanning out her hands to frame her vision. “And this time, you get to make all the rules.”
Over the session’s final fifteen minutes—plus an extra half-hour because we agreed we didn’t want to lose the momentum—we draw on the parallels between the modern debutante and divorcées, brainstorming not just fashion, but a project to really channel my divatante/divorcétante energy into a single source. Together, we come up with a singular outlet that combines my goals, homework, and reemergence onto social media all in one.
We’ll call itThe Divorcétante Chronicles.
Since the world is so invested in my life, I’m going to bring them along—on a newly branded social media series—as I date, plan the Winston-Livingston wedding, and throw spaghetti at the post-divorce wall to see what sticks. I’ll talk about how my friendships have been affected, how Ireallyfeel about Nora Whitfield, and share entries from my gorgeous gratitude journal—which I’ve got to go buy posthaste—all while curating a new, charmed life.
Mostly, it’ll just be me, embracing independence on my terms.
By the time I leave Savannah’s office, I’ve got a little over twenty minutes until my appointment with Lincoln Bridges, and I’m doing the pee dance, trying to make to the restroom as I fire off a quick 911 text to the divatantes.
Fortunately, Linc’s office is in the same building as Savannah’s.
Unfortunately, the second my phone starts ringing with a call from my girls, I discover the restroom on Savannah’s floor is closed for cleaning, and now I’m waddling to the elevator.
“Honey, in a world full of influencers, I’m about to burn up the headlines,” I say, utterly geeked as I connect the call to a flood of excited squeals.
The doors glide open, and I enter, pushing the button for floor one.
Of course, Whitney is the first to ask what we’re geeked up about. To which I simply say, “The Divorcétante Chronicles,” before giving them my one-liner elevator pitch. “It’s something like the pre-adventures of post-divorce Ebony.Fashion, freedom, friends—”
“And hopefully dating fine-ass men,” Whitney quips, on brand.
Priscilla’s high-pitched scream is perfectly timed with the dinging of the elevator as I reach the first floor. “Oh myGod. I love it!”
“Me too!” I laugh. But not too hard, feeling the urgency intensify as I spot the restroom in the far-left corner near the directory panel. “Chile, can you imagine? Me, extroverting from the comfort of my own home? This is why Savannah is absolutely worth every dime I’m paying her.”
In the background, Whit is laughing and singing the viral “Everything Is Content”audio sound, throwing in her own little remix.
“I cannot imagine anyone more perfect for this,” Priscilla says, sweetly.
“Thank you.”
“Sounds amazing. But can we revisit what coach said when you told her you going to be working with that fine-ass man?” Whitney’s pursed-lip challenge crackles through the phone. “Planning this wedding or not, you know you want to see Lincoln—”
“For a logistics and planning meeting, on a Wednesday,” I protest, weakly. “It’s business.”
“More likeunfinishedbusiness…” Priscilla cackles.
I freeze just a few feet from the restrooms.
Unbidden, images of Lincoln Bridges and the last time I saw him trespass on my mind.
A few years ago, we bumped into each other at a church a couple towns over, where he was restoring windows. We grabbed lunch, and it felt like old times—joking and laughing about sports on the TV. But when the laughter faded, Lincoln looked at me tentatively with those soulful gray eyes, the way he did sometimes when I knew he was remembering that night in college when we blurred the lines…
I thought,No,don’t go there. For all that is good andholy,pleaseleave our past buried safely in the past.
But it turned out it wasn’t our past that made him hesitate.
Throwing me for an entire loop, Lincolnasked how life as a Livingston was going. Then he dropped a bombshell so heavy it shook my entire existence.
Julian’s with another woman.
