Chapter Three #2
A knowing glint flashes in Savannah’s eyes. “So romance is still on the table, then?”
Slouching deeper into the cushions—my mother would have a conniption if she saw my posture—I glance at Savannah, already sensing the action plan brewing in her deep-set brown eyes. She’s too good at compartmentalizing my chaotic life into fun-sized chunks.
“It’s on the kids’ table,” I squeak out with a shaky smile. “Right now, all I’m hoping for is a genuine connection. Whenever the good Lord sees fit.”
In the way only Savannah can, she lays out my next steps with precision.
She sets me to the task of brainstorming solutions for each of my current struggles, breaking them into manageable, practical, actionable goals.
One of my longest-standing best friends ghosts me?
Write a letter in my journal, lending words to the hurt and sadness it’s caused, then later call her when emotions aren’t running so high.
Create a “calming water sounds” playlist to release the anger.
No more hiccups. Nervous about reentering the wedding circuit after a long absence and underhanded moves by Cornelia Livingston?
Get your bag but go back to basics—meet with clients, consult with vendors, and pull out the trusty checklists.
Take it one task at a time. And avoid the monster-in-law as often as possible.
The ex-files? Show myself grace in a daily gratitude journal.
All of which feels reasonable.
But then she hits me with the kicker.
I jolt upright, eyes wide. “Homework? You mean, like, aside from the goals, you want me to turn in an assignment?”
Savannah’s full pink lips curve up as she slides her notepad across the coffee table, then leans back against the sofa.
Reluctantly, I peer over the page, scanning her beautifully swirly penmanship.
At the top, our next session date—Wednesday, June eighteenth—is underscored three times, which I’m guessing means that the slot is nonnegotiable.
But then my attention shifts to the three bullet points listed on the first few lines—including test the dating waters .
My gaze snaps to hers.
“As in, sign up for a dating app or go on an actual date?” I ask, my heart skittering a bit at the prospect of opening myself up to the unhinged world of dating I’ve read horror stories about on social media.
Coffee is one thing, but waking up to my living room covered in tarp because I accidentally invited Dexter into my home? Absolutely not.
Savannah shrugs, evidently amused by the sheer panic I’m sure is smeared all over my face.
“Yes, you can explore dating apps, or take the organic routes—mixers, speed dating. I’ll send you my dating concierge contact, if privacy is a concern,” she says nonchalantly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Perhaps you’ll meet someone in passing or at the supermarket.
Maybe you’ve got a friend who wants to introduce you to someone nice. ”
“Maybe not.” I laugh. “But okay…” I trail off, considering the next bullet point.
Plan the Winston/Livingston wedding like it’s the last you ’ll plan.
The corners of my mouth tug downward, my lower lip protruding slightly.
Maybe thinking of it as just one wedding will make it feel more manageable.
I can maximize my network of contacts and resources.
If being a forever debutante and the Ellswood face of a divorcée has taught me anything, it’s how to be graceful under pressure.
I’m a lady first. One who doesn’t air out her grievances publicly.
One of composure, restraint, and elegance.
Not that my wardrobe has reflected as much lately .
“This one’s fine,” I say, reaching for the pen to add a “rebrand my image” bullet point at the bottom of the list, but my focus stutters on Savannah’s third homework assignment, and I gasp. “Um, we are twinning, my friend. ‘Brainstorm a personal project to channel your inner divatante—’”
“Or divorcétante?” Savannah dips her chin like she feels the synergy in the air.
I toss her a conspiratorial grin, because we are most definitely vibing on the same bandwidth.
“I love the sound of that.” I scoot to the edge of the sofa, bubbling with excitement.
“I was just thinking if I’m reentering the red-carpet world of illustrious events and whatnot, and I’m about to be out here hobnobbing with Ellswood’s finest eligible bachelors, I might need to revamp my image.
Reconsider what style guide embodies the true me.
You know, the new, fabulous look for the new and improved Ebony Grace? But please, say more.”
Her laugh is anything but delicate. “It’ll be your grand reintroduction to society,” she declares, theatrically fanning out her hands to frame her vision. “And this time, you get to make all the rules.”
Over the session’s final fifteen minutes—plus an extra half-hour because we agreed we didn’t want to lose the momentum—we draw on the parallels between the modern debutante and divorcées, brainstorming not just fashion, but a project to really channel my divatante/divorcétante energy into a single source.
Together, we come up with a singular outlet that combines my goals, homework, and reemergence onto social media all in one.
We’ll call it The Divorcétante Chronicles .
Since the world is so invested in my life, I’m going to bring them along—on a newly branded social media series—as I date, plan the Winston-Livingston wedding, and throw spaghetti at the post-divorce wall to see what sticks.
I’ll talk about how my friendships have been affected, how I really feel about Nora Whitfield, and share entries from my gorgeous gratitude journal—which I’ve got to go buy posthaste—all while curating a new, charmed life.
Mostly, it’ll just be me, embracing independence on my terms.
By the time I leave Savannah’s office, I’ve got a little over twenty minutes until my appointment with Lincoln Bridges, and I’m doing the pee dance, trying to make to the restroom as I fire off a quick 911 text to the divatantes.
Fortunately, Linc’s office is in the same building as Savannah’s.
Unfortunately , the second my phone starts ringing with a call from my girls, I discover the restroom on Savannah’s floor is closed for cleaning, and now I’m waddling to the elevator.
“Honey, in a world full of influencers, I’m about to burn up the headlines,” I say, utterly geeked as I connect the call to a flood of excited squeals.
The doors glide open, and I enter, pushing the button for floor one.
Of course, Whitney is the first to ask what we’re geeked up about. To which I simply say, “ The Divorcétante Chronicles ,” before giving them my one-liner elevator pitch. “It’s something like the pre-adventures of post-divorce Ebony . Fashion, freedom, friends—”
“And hopefully dating fine-ass men,” Whitney quips, on brand.
Priscilla’s high-pitched scream is perfectly timed with the dinging of the elevator as I reach the first floor. “Oh my God . I love it!”
“Me too!” I laugh. But not too hard, feeling the urgency intensify as I spot the restroom in the far-left corner near the directory panel. “ Chile , can you imagine? Me, extroverting from the comfort of my own home? This is why Savannah is absolutely worth every dime I’m paying her.”
In the background, Whit is laughing and singing the viral “Everything Is Content” audio sound, throwing in her own little remix.
“I cannot imagine anyone more perfect for this,” Priscilla says, sweetly.
“Thank you.”
“Sounds amazing. But can we revisit what coach said when you told her you going to be working with that fine-ass man?” Whitney’s pursed-lip challenge crackles through the phone. “Planning this wedding or not, you know you want to see Lincoln—”
“For a logistics and planning meeting, on a Wednesday,” I protest, weakly. “It’s business.”
“More like unfinished business…” Priscilla cackles.
I freeze just a few feet from the restrooms.
Unbidden, images of Lincoln Bridges and the last time I saw him trespass on my mind.
A few years ago, we bumped into each other at a church a couple towns over, where he was restoring windows.
We grabbed lunch, and it felt like old times—joking and laughing about sports on the TV.
But when the laughter faded, Lincoln looked at me tentatively with those soulful gray eyes, the way he did sometimes when I knew he was remembering that night in college when we blurred the lines…
I thought, No, don’t go there. For all that is good and holy, please leave our past buried safely in the past .
But it turned out it wasn’t our past that made him hesitate.
Throwing me for an entire loop, Lincoln asked how life as a Livingston was going. Then he dropped a bombshell so heavy it shook my entire existence.
Julian’s with another woman.
It wasn’t a question. By the somber look on his face, I knew he’d seen it firsthand, and while I’d suspected as much, I hadn’t been ready to face the truth.
I called Lincoln a liar and told him I never wanted to see him again—mainly because I couldn’t bear that pity that I’d seen from others. But never from him.
This man, who knew how I’d been watered down yet still saw me clearly.
I couldn’t stomach his pity then, and I’m not about to start now.
“Business my behind…” Whitney laughs. “You told me yourself you missed him.”
“Past tense,” I say, even though it’s a fair point. Even though that picture of him in his work boots with his sleeves pushed up his forearms lives rent-free in my head.
Focus, Ebony.
Any other day, meeting up for business with a beautiful man—a friend who tried to protect me and whom I wrongly called a liar with my whole chest—would have me freaking out. But right now, I’ve got to get my game face on.