There is no way…
On the screen, the first season’s promotional photo pops up, featuring seven glamorously styled and profiled cast members dressed in varying shades of rose-gold and posed against a lush, opulent wall of deep ruby and blush-colored roses. At the center of the women is Nora Whitfield at her peak.
America’s favorite hussy of a news anchor.
I’m speechless. Did Mom really come into my house and turn this on?
“Well, it’s a shame it didn’t work out with him,” she says, and part of me wants to believe we’re still talking about Faux Beau or AI Linc. But deep down, I know we’re always talking about Julian Livingston III. “There’s still a handsome, wealthy, eligible bachelor with your name on him.”
She whips around, and I’ll admit, I resent the gleeful twitch of her lips. My mother’s never subtle. Everything she says, and doesn’t say, has meaning. Nora may be having his baby, but I’ve still got his last name. Despite everything—infidelity, public shame, the divorcétante, Cornelia—he still wants me.
It’s what everyone’s saying.
I’ve seen the million-view PopShot videos of him on the news when his co-anchor asked what he thought about my dating again. Commenters dissect the emotions that played on his face, weighing in on every minute detail. There are Julian-and-Ebony stan accounts popping up everywhere.
“Ebony Grace.” Mom deepens her stare, without words telling me that all I have to do is…say the word? Pretend he wasn’t unfaithful? Forget about his unborn child? Forget about the pieces of me I’m only just rediscovering?
Live my life on their terms.
She doesn’t say that, but it’s what I’d need to do. Forget about the loss of love, the emotional turmoil and resentment, my low self-esteem, and the fact that I’d never be able to really trust him. All I have to do is put on my crown and smile for the people.
I won’t do it.
“No.” My face contorts with annoyance. “Just any random handsome, wealthy, eligible bachelor, huh?”
Something about hearing those words aloud irks me. That’s always been it, hasn’t it? Looks and money. Easy enough for Julian to check both boxes. But no, my mother isn’t concerned with shared values, intelligence, capability, tenderness, or loyalty.
Just cute and able to provide.
What a fairytale…
I shake my head, and a humorless laugh slips out me because everything about her archaic standard is Ellswood.
Cornelia Livingston’s Ellswood.
The thing is, Mom is not Cornelia. But I won’t say she’s nothing like her. In a dozen given ways, at the core they come from the same old-school, high-saddity, holier-than-thou place of Black excellence. Women are supposed to respect their elders, do as we’re told, and stay in line. Any deviation is considered defiant. They’re appalled by my audacity to not be their puppet.
Indignation boils in the back of my throat, and I can’t help but laugh. “You know what, Mom? You need to stop worrying about my love life, okay? I don’t want your help, nor your input. When it comes to the person I’ll end up with,ifI ever find him…he’ll be my choice.”
“Ebony Grace, what has gotten into you?”
“I suspect something akin to courage,” I say with every ounce of conviction that I feel. “Courage to be unapologetically me. I’msodone being your little debutante doll. Now…” I take the remote from her hand, turn off the television, and fan out my arm toward the door. “I’ve got a date, so you’ve got to go.”
She blanches, her mouth slackening, perhaps in disbelief.
I’m surprised, too. But for completely different reasons. I never talk to my mother this way. Every inch of my skin tingles, though in the best way. Something has changed inside, and it feels damn good to stand up for myself for once.
Whisk & Whistle probably wasn’t the best restaurant choice for a first date. On the surface, it seemed like a win-win. With Fourth of July falling on Friday and Saturday reserved for hangovers, Sunday brunchcould’vebeen the perfect option. Fried green tomatoes with a side of remoulade for Zeek—that’s his name.Bright, sunny, highly visible, upscale brunch spot for me.
Everyone makes it home safe.
But I forgot about the New Eateries segment onThe Morning Tea.This place has beenperceivedby the Ellswood elite. Everyone who’s anyoneneedsto make an appearance this week. So the venue’s loud and overcrowded, and the wait time to be seated is more than an hour.
I’m praying the line for the women’s restroom is shorter.
Weaving through the sea of people holding wait-list buzzers, I make my way to the hostess station. “Hi, excuse me, uh, you wouldn’t happen to have someone on the list named…Zeek? We’re supposed to meet here at eleven.” I feel like an idiot, not knowing his last name.
The hostess glances up, and I see that slight hint of recognition on her face. I’m sure she’s fighting the urge to yank out her phone and blast me to the trolls. Thankfully, though, she just smiles and scrolls down her screen.
