Never in my life have I been so excited to see Julian Livingston III’s pretty-boy face. His emotions flash across the phone in 3D Technicolor—resentment, anger, embarrassment, guilt, regret, shock, and powerlessness all wrapped up under that dumbass royal-blue bow on his head.
NowI’mthe one holding my heart and gasping for air, barely able to stand upright.
It’s a gift to my soul, and I can’t contain my laughter as anEllswood Timesheadline scrolls across the bottom of the screen.
Esteemed Matriarch Cornelia Livingston on The Divorcétante: “From Debutante to Divorcée: A Masterclass in Rebranding Desperation”
Oh,shit.
Except when my attention drifts up from the phone, my eyes lock on a fuming Hillary Winston ahead of the girls.
Her long, dark hair is swept behind her slender shoulders, and she’s draped in all black from her sleek dress to her oversized designer shades, like she’s in mourning.
My, my, my… Karma’s in motion.
“Chile, pure, unfiltered comedy, this early in this glorious a.m. Am I right?” The girl with the braids twists around, steadying her appraising gaze on me.
“No truer words.” I flash her a small smile, breaking the starting contest with Hillary to up the ante with my new friend. “Think he’s going to congratulate the divorcétante?”
She sucks her teeth, tucking a loose braid behind her ear. “Sir, be serious. That man still wants Ebony, but now he done messed around and got Nora knocked up. We all know Mama Livingston will make him marry Nora, and that’s the end of it. Can’t have him sullying the family name.”
At this, I finally turn away from Hillary. “Nah, definitely can’t have that.”
“Cold brew for Parker!” the barista calls out, stirring the coffee shop into another bout of laughter at the sheer comedic timing.
Thankfully, the line moves, and Hillary turns back toward the front, inching forward.
Soon, she orders her coffee, then the girls in front of me move to the register. I’m next to pay for my nitro cold brew, the hum of undecipherable chatter returns to Bean & Gone, and I figure, that’s it. We’ve never shared a friendship, and we’re not about to conjure one up out of the thick, French-roasted air. We’ve got nothing to discuss.
At least, I’ve got nothing to say to her.
But a few moments later, she’s still here.
Why hasn’t she left? What’s she waiting for?
“Hey there, what can I make for you this morning?” the perky barista asks.
I make quick work placing my order and stepping out of line to wait for my drink. I’m careful to avoid Hillary, who’s standing near the side window, away from the pickup line. Even after my name is called, we still don’t exchange words.
It’s not until a few moments later, when I weave past the line to the condiment station in the corner for sugar packets, that she moves too, settling at my side.
I glance at her, restless and breathing heavy like she wants me to speak first. And so I do.
“What do you think, Hillary?” I clamp the sugar packets between my thumb and forefinger, shaking vigorously before I rip the corners and pour the contents into my cup. “Mama Livingston’s going to make Julian lock it down with Nora for good, or nah?”
“Why are you asking me?”
After a quick stir, I cap my cup and take a long sip. Then I meet Hillary’s gaze.
“I suspect for the same reason you came over here to talk to me.” I shrug, purposely blasé. “Thought you, of all people, would know.”
She gasps, mouth agape as she stares at me, horrified. “What?”
Oh.
Back there in the line, her glare wasn’t just a dominance play, like I thought. No, that direct eye contact was a warning—protective behavior. She was on defense.
She didn’t think I knew about her and Julian. Three years ago, they didn’t see me, but I saw them kissing in a darkened parking lot.
