“You know what she did wrong, don’t you?” I straighten, my shoulders back, my throat bared, absolutely no bull.
Ebony nods, slowly, as if she’s attuned to my every whim. “Yup. It seems she started with the wrong partner…”
A laugh, straight from the gut, tumbles out of me, loosening the tension further.
I take a deep breath, staring at Ebony, overwhelmed by how much I love her. “Exactly. You always start with the right partner. That’s what I’m doing.”
So, no, we’re definitely not taking the high road either, trying to beat Cornelia at her own game. If there’s one thing we know about calling a spade a spade, it’s not a trick-taking recreational activity. It’s absolutelynota game. We’re taking books and names.
Because that’s what we do.
As we give the metaphorical deck a long, overcomplicated shuffle, we take inventory of our hand—Julian’s multiple documented infidelities, including Hillary and Nora, that we know of, Ebony’sDivorcétante Chroniclesplatform, and both of our businesses. Most importantly, our “big joker,” the president of the National Association of Spades Activities.
Then we make a careful cut and deal the cards. We’re playing big joker, little joker, ace. All cards on the table first wins. Sandbagging and trash talking allowed.
Our bid is based on a single goal—force Cornelia to play her cards.
After I scoop my barefoot sweetheart into my arms, I walk away from Madison Manor toward my truck. Setting her on the hood, I gently place her heels on her small feet, fastening the straps one at a time. Then Ebony takes out her phone, swipes away the endless stream of notifications, and, like she’s summoning strength from some unknown depth, positions me against the door of the car and stands in front of me. With her back pressed to my chest, phone aimed selfie-mode at us, the PopShot app counts down the live.
“Hey, divas… By now, I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures, blogs, articles. The endless comments attempting to smear my name.Ournames…”
She breaks off, looking past the mounting viewer count, the tiny bursts of animated hearts and flowers, and the tapestry of thousands of comments climbing the page.
But I’m reading and loving their support for this woman who needs to know the world isn’t against her or us.
I’m seated.
Told y’all she wouldn’t leave us hanging. She’s standing ten toes down.
Oh, shoot, he is foinnnnnnnn. My man, my man, my man.
I would pause, peace, power all day…
“And I’m here to tell you that she got one thing right. Love. I’m in love with this man.”
Softly, I kiss the crown of her head.
“And yes, it’s been over ten years that we’ve been friends. But in my heart, I believe I might’ve chosen him for myself if not for a few women, whose guidance and opinions I valued, telling me otherwise.
“When I said ‘she got one thing right,’ I was talking about one woman in particular who’ll do anything in her power to see me flounder. Her influence is indeed powerful.”
The comments take a sharp left turn.
Say less. We already know it’s Cornelia Livingston.
Has that woman ever considered shutting tfu?
I haven’t believed anything she’s said.
We CLOCKED it?
Exposed??
PopShot, do your thing.
“Make no mistake, I wasn’t the faithless one in my marriage. Period. Those pictures you’re seeing? They’re from the past couple months, since the end of June, when I’ve dared to find love—acceptlove—in my life from a man who has given it so freely without condition. So, yes, I’m in love with Lincoln Bridges.”
Ebony lets out a sigh of relief that quickly turns into a giggle.
