“Julian?”
My first instinct is to let him go to voicemail, because why is he calling me, interrupting my peace? But overwhelmingly, I’m shocked, a little surprised, and filled with dread. Curiosity and anxiety tangle in my chest because I’ve left a dozen texts unanswered, but he nevercalls. We don’t call each other anymore. Ever.
What does hewant?
My mind immediately nose-dives into bad-news territory. Is someone hurt? One of his brothers, Hailey, or even Cornelia? Worse, has his man-radar gone off and he somehow know about Linc and me?Isthere a me and Linc?Lord, Ebony…
Reluctantly, I tap to answer.
“Yes, what’s up?” There’s silence, and at first, I wonder if maybe he’s butt-dialed me, so I check the screen again. “Julian?”
“Oh, I didn’t actually think you’d answer,” he says, and annoyance creeps over my skin.
I sigh. “Well, I did. So, again, is there something you needed? I’ve got things to do.”
He stalls, and I’m halfway expecting him to tell me something messy, like he’s disputing Nora’s pregnancy and waiting for the results of a paternity test. Or worse, to apologize and beg me to come back to him. Again.
But then he says, “You know those undershirts you used to buy for me? Where’d you get them? I can’t find them anywhere.”
The rage that boils inside me is lethal.
I’m so amazed by the sheer audacity of this man, who has already asked formymom’s spaghetti sauce recipe, the Wi-Fi password, and which detergent I use because his clothes don’t smell like they used to. And now this…this overgrown clown who never appreciated all the things I did for him dares fix his lips to ask where to buy his favorite undershirts?
“Disrespectfully, Julian…screw all the way off, and figure it out like I had to do for over a decade. While you’re at it, lose my number. I’ll never want you back.”
I stab my finger on the widget, disconnecting the call, my good mood gone. I’m restless, and angry, just staring at the phone like it’s at fault, when my attention shifts to the time.
I’ve still got ten more minutes before Ineedto shower and get dressed to leave.
Quickly grabbing my ring light, I affix my phone to it, open the PopShot app, and press the ‘live’ button.
“Hey there, friends. I wasn’t planning to post yet, but I just got a call from my ex-husband.”
It’s so messy, and I would log off right now if I had any sense. I’m the divorcétante.I’m supposed to be this put-together example of a woman flourishing post-divorce. I’ve got new clothes and a fierce new haircut. I’m a lipstick brand ambassador. I’ve filed a trademark on the phrase “pause, peace, power” because it’s now part of the global lexicon. I should be the bigger person…
“Remember that first video, when I promised I’d give you the scandal? The shock-value, trending, viral, smear-campaign drama that you want?
“Well, I feel like I’ve short-changed you on that a bit. I jumped straight into reinventing myself outside of that family’s dynasty and the fandoms. I put decorum and etiquette first. I was so eager to prove I’d moved beyond anger and pettiness.
“But today, that man called my phone to ask me where I used to buy his undershirts, y’all. His damned undershirts!”
The viewer count and comments start zipping up the screen.
“And you know what? I think that act of violence affords me the right to tell you that I’m pissed, no,furiousthat I wasted almost ten years of my life on a man who begged for my time, then wasted it.
“Am I angry about the infidelity and the divorce? Hell yes. But also, I feel like you should know that the affair with that woman was just the final straw.”
The comments section is on fire.
Glad you left his ass.
Decenter men!
Not the undershirts being the last straw.
We love you, Divorcétante!
Honey, congratulations on your prison release.
