My skin prickles with discomfort as I imagine their pitying smiles, and that familiar, dizzying fear crawls over me.Damn, Idon’tgot this.
“Nope, I can’t do this.” My breaths grow fast and shallow. “I’m out.”
I try to turn back toward the door, but Whitney steadies me.
“See Priscilla and Hillary, at the bar, wildly waving us over? It’s just a regular Saturday night. You’re here with your girls to celebrate Hailey and Donovan,” she insists. “That’s it. Neither Julian nor that trifling woman are going to matter, because this is your ‘take back your life’ moment, okay? Reclaim your identity.”
My heart stalls.
Reclaim youridentity.
For a beat, I let those words sink in. I block out all the faces, all the noise, and pull in a deep breath. Then I release it, along with all the tangled emotions around my divorce and the challenge of keeping my life—and my circle—close to my chest this past year.
Just me and my girls,I tell myself as I lift my hand into the air and repeat the mantra to myself. “No one else matters.”
“Mm-hmm,theyknow, but doyouknow you’rethatgirl?” Whitney, going above and beyond her best-friend duties, keeps lifting me up like it’s her full-time job. “Don’t go cowering, Miss Thang.Commandtheir respect,” she preaches, clearly channeling her inner Oprah as she stares a few bougie folks down on my behalf.
Admittedly, I feel a little more pep in my step.
“I know that’s right.Strutfor ’em, Ebony queen!” she hypes me up, snapping in time with my footsteps.
From the back, Priscilla—in an infinitely more couture LBD than me—chimes in, “Yesss, louder for the people in the back!”
By the time we get to the bar, it’s Black Girl Magic in full force. It’s all hugs and laughter with my girls, and I’m light as a rock.
At thirty-five, it feels so good to still be tight with the same crew I’ve had since I was sixteen, preparing for my grand social debut. As a little sister, Hailey’s an honorary member, but, really, it’s been the six of us—us four in town and two, Chanel and Tatiana, currently off globetrotting and scheming world domination. We jokingly call ourselves the Divatantes—the perfect mix of diva and debutante. Whether society is ready for us or not, we come in with equal parts high drama and old-school charm. Lord, if we don’t wear our titles like sparkling tiaras…
“Hey, glad you made it.” Hillary side-hugs me, sly smile in place as she tells me “everyone” is already here, then, with five simple words, answers my silent prayers: “We’ve got a private room.”
“Hil…” I deflate against her tall, lean frame, relieved and laughing. I’m floating on Cloud 99 Problems but Public Humiliation Ain’t One, and it feelsgood.
Hillary’s smile is positively wicked. “Shall we?”
“Say less, friend.” I tuck my clutch under my arm, straightening. “Where you go, I will follow.”
She turns on her six-inch red-bottom black pumps and works the marble like a catwalk queen in her black cashmere midi-length dress. My posture is ramrod straight, shoulders back, chin high as I file in line with Priscilla and Whitney on my heel—gliding like a sexy royal processional past the bougie, low-vibrational set.
It feels amazing.
For the few seconds it takes for us to cross the dining room and turn the corner to the private party rooms,Ifeel amazing.
I’m with my girls, the great times are ready to be had, and for the first time in a year, I’m me again.
Then Hillary swings open the door.
It’s not April Fool’s Day, but we’re barely ten days into May, and the spotlight is on me. All conversation dies in an instant. A dozen pairs of eyes snap to mine, and I freeze.
Then I see him.
The dark brown eyes attached to the man who shattered everything.
JulianLivingston III.
It’s like a warped déjà vu.
All over again, it’s the switch-up.
Fire ignites in my chest, searing through my veins, and for a moment I can’t breathe. My stomach churns as I quickly shift my attention, searching the party for Nora’s long, dark waves, her striking green eyes, and…
