I’m still smiling, but I don’t move.
“I know, girl.” Whitney nods, sympathetically, like she senses I’m shifting my guards back into place.
The energy in the room begins to wane. They’re waiting for me to decide what comes next, but honestly? I have no idea. Right now, I’m just numb. The hurt always overtakes the anger. This year, Julian and I have shared nothing more than awkward smiles and stilted phone calls—talking about trivial things like where to find stuff around the house, or the Wi-Fi password, or some client he referred because, of course, he still thinks we can be friends. But we haven’treallyinteracted. That’s been all on me.
I’m still trying to unravel myself from the Livingstons, trying to remember who I was before him—who I want to be now as Ebony Grace…
I stop pacing and stare at the textured beige wall, suddenly exhausted.
“All the work I’ve done this year?” I pause, still reflecting. “Like, just to survive this mess, I have a therapist and a life coach—”
“A damn good one, too,” Whitney chimes in, nodding like a proud sister. “Savannah Sampson is no joke. I saw that star-studded special she did…”
“The one last year?” Priscilla dips her chin, immediately invested.
“Mm-hmm,” Whit confirms. “Had me all up in my head, feeling some type of way—”
“Can we stay focused?” I cut them off, walking over to the sink and bracing myself against the smooth, cool surface. “I’ve still got to do this,” I say, unsure if I’m speaking to them or to my own reflection at this point.
“You’re right.” Whitney gives a decisive nod. “So, how do you want to do this? Because I’m absolutely stillgameto march right back in there and throw hands in this vintage ensemble if that’s what it takes.”
Before I can even respond, a heavy knock on the door startles us, and we freeze in place.
“Guys, it’s me,” Hailey’s high-pitched voice squeaks through the door, strained and panicked.
Priscilla and Whitney exchange a glance, both giving me the “your call” look, but I’m still not ready to face the symphony of awkwardness waiting for me on the other side.
“Who is me?” Whitney grins mischievously, buying me some time.
“It’s Hailey! Can you please let me in?”
Sensing I’m still not ready, Priscilla jumps in. “What’s the password?”
The three of us burst out laughing, the tension in the room finally breaking. After a beat, I finally—begrudgingly—unlock the door.
My girls fall into formation at my sides as the door swings open. Instead of entering, Hailey steps aside—and there’s Julian Livingston III.
She hesitates like she’s struggling to find the right words. “Okay, before you come for me, let me say that Hil and Ibothtried to talk him out of this.”
“And by ‘this,’ you mean what?” Whit glares at Julian, too. “What could you possibly need to say to Ebony—on such a wonderfully festive occasion—to excuse your sorry self?”
Julian nods repeatedly. “You’re right. I deserve that.”
A collective “mm-hmm” echoes over us four women.
I love my friends.
Hailey takes a shaky breath, stepping farther into the restroom. “Ebony, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to ambush you like this,” she starts, her voice thick with guilt. “I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. But Ireallydidn’t want him begging or whatever he’s hellbent on doing in front of the entire room. Even Cornelia told him to let the past go, but he when he saw you—”
“I knew this was my shot.” Julian’s deep, bass-filled voice reverberates around us as he inches toward the doorframe.
But Whit and Priscilla step in front of me like bombshell bodyguards.
“It absolutely is not,” Priscilla snaps. “And you’re good right where you are. We’re listening.”
My divas are seconds from choosing violence, and I’m tempted to let them.
But then Hailey gives me a pleading look.
