Chapter Seven
Snapped
Ebony
“Hi there, can I help you find anything?”
I look up from my phone, where I just sent another call from Mom to voicemail as a bright-eyed woman with long goddess braids and flawless brown skin weaves her way through the vibrant display tables of the boutique stationery store, heading straight for me.
I’ve been aimlessly browsing through a colorful sea of journals for the last half-hour, and spoiler alert, I still haven’t picked one.
“Oh my goodness.” I laugh nervously, suddenly feeling very self-aware. “You’ve probably been watching me this whole time, wondering if I’m really contemplating this deep or just dazed and confused.”
To my relief, she waves off my comment, flashing me a reassuring smile. “Honey, I’m a planner girlie. I, for one, am not judging. Choosing the right journal—or planner, or shoot, even the right pen—is basically a life decision. It’s as important as the words and plans that go in it.”
We exchange a wide-eyed look of silent solidarity.
A relieved sigh seeps out of me. “Okay, good, because I was going to stay home and search online. But foolishly, I somehow thought coming here, getting up close, feeling the textures, and letting the colors fuel my inspiration would make all the difference.” I smile, letting my nerves settle, like I’ve confessed some deep, vulnerable truth.
If she’s secretly judging, thankfully, she doesn’t let on. “You have definitely come to the right place,” she says.
“Of course. This is absolutely a me problem. Recently, I’ve just been generally…indecisive? I don’t know if that’s the right word.” I laugh. “But you get it.” I gesture to the journal stacks, like they’re the root cause of my woes when they’re barely the tip of my emotional iceberg.
The thing is, I could’ve worked from home today.
I could’ve torn a sheet of paper from an old notebook to get my Hillary homework done.
I’ve also got updates from Cornelia on the guest list, plus a flood of emails I need to send to beg vendors to pull this wedding together on short notice.
It’s too late for save-the-dates, but Hailey needs to select invitations.
Or, instead of staying home, I should head over to my office at Ellswood Mill, clean up the space, start sorting through my wedding arches and vases, and get everything looking presentable for client meetings—fingers crossed, those referrals come pouring in.
But how am I supposed to focus on checklists and an office moonlighting as a storage unit, or even my consultation next Friday with the dating concierge Savannah set me up with, when I can’t stop fixating on that dream?
I drag the tip of my fingernail over the edge of my teeth, still daunted by the heady rush of Linc’s throaty whisper. Look at me, Ebony.
Phew, Lord… It was so real.
The way my body prickled with awareness of his—
Too real.
See, this is why today, it’s homework over working from home. I cannot afford to be distracted. I’ve got too much riding on this wedding.
But even Savannah’s homework has been weighing on me.
Not so much reaching out to Hillary or dating—more like, where do I start with The Divorcétante Chronicles ?
What’s the logistics of building a social media series as an outlet?
What’s my real end goal with it? And, all things considered, am I ready to put myself out there to be judged even further?
After a beat, I realize I’ve been standing here, and the woman has been quietly watching me, lost in thought.
“Sorry.” I laugh again. “My head has been all over the place. A gratitude journal was supposed to be my easy task.”
Her expression is all determination as she pushes her sleeves up her forearms and plants herself across from me like an official guide to the world of journals. “Say less, sis. Let’s check this one off your list.”
I love this woman’s take-charge energy.
She’s still nodding as she gathers her wispy braids and twists them into a massive bun atop her head. After plucking a pencil from behind her ear, she fixes her hair in place, as if she needs more room to think. “I’ve only got a few more options to narrow it down.”
Syd, I learn, is her name, and she turns out to be a godsend.
After a thorough process of elimination—based on color, prefilled options, and inspirational highlights—I finally select a gorgeous lavender leather journal.
The cover is engraved with the words Reclaim Your Joy in a shimmery gold metallic.
“It’s perfect!” I squeal, genuinely happy.
She winks and dusts off her shoulder. “It really is, friend. And there’s a buy-one-get-one-free sale right now. You’re sure I can’t get you a romance journal, in case you have a little summer fling going on?”
A full belly laugh rumbles out of me, and I can’t fault the girl for trying. But also, why is she so hellbent on selling me a love journal? Is she… flirting with me?
I flash her a nervous smile. “Thank you, but I’m good.”
Dipping her chin, she screws her deep burgundy lips to the side, reading my expression for truth.
“I’m being so real. The Story of Us . Love Letters to My Future Husband …
” She lifts the deep red one in her left hand and twists the pink one in her right.
“You look like a woman who has a new boo in her life. Just out here on a Tuesday, glowing with all that melanin.”
I’m holding my side, gasping for air and grateful I won’t have to turn this sweet girl down. “You are too much!”
“And really great at reading folks.” She tilts her head, fixing me with an intense gaze.
“You’re really telling me that’s not ‘new love’ written all over your face?
You weren’t just over here daydreaming?” Syd deepens her stare like she will pry an answer out of me if she has to.
“No lie, you’ve got this soft red aura.”
“Yeah?”
Another customer enters the boutique, and I do my best to recompose myself, but I’m still breathless as I grab a project-based journal and follow Syd over to the counter to ring up my purchase.
I feel giddy and accomplished, like I’m making real progress with Savannah’s homework.
But also, like a higher power ensured Syd’s and my paths crossed today.
I needed her lightness.
“Ooh, chile .” I lean on the counter, my breathing finally starting to even out as I ignore the umpteenth call from Mom. She’s eager to discuss my “new boo’s” threat to a chance of my reuniting with Julian, no doubt. After his “I won’t give up” spiel, I’m sure the whisper network has reached her.
Leave a message after the tone, please.
I’m all smiles, browsing small trinkets and magnetic bookmarks, thinking about what a great self-care decision it was coming here before my hair appointment and making my first journal entry at the salon a few blocks away. But then Syd moves in my periphery, stealing my attention.
What the…
A cold sensation washes over me as I lock eyes with her. She’s still holding her phone.
“Did you…just take my picture?” My mouth falls open, confusion drawing my eyebrows together as I watch Syd—the same woman I was just so grateful to for helping me pick out a journal, for being so kind to me—freeze, guilty as all get-out.
And that’s when I see it.
Nestled among the collage of stickers plastered inside her clear phone case, in the bottom-right corner, Pepto Bismol-pink and glittery, is #TeamNora.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
My heart plummets straight into my stomach.
“Sorry, I just…” She falters, perhaps realizing how stupid she sounds trying to deny it when I watched her, right here, focus, aim, and snap an unsolicited photo of me—pre-salon appointment, no less—that’s probably going to end up on the gossip blogs, or worse, as some viral meme for Azalea and Yvette to dissect on The Morning Tea .
She shoves her phone into her pocket, rushes to the cash register, and scans the barcodes like she’s praying I didn’t just catch her in the act.
I track her every move as she bags the journals, silently daring her to forget my BOGO discount and find out.
“These are great choices.” She tosses me an awkward smile. “I hope you really love them.”
Oh, I’ll bet you do.
The initial shock starts to wear off, giving way to a fiery heat creeping up my neck. I’m pissed now, standing here in disbelief. This woman—this undercover, low-class, trifling Internet troll—had the audacity to snap photos of me at her place of employment ?
Nuh-uh.
“Oh, you’re a bold one, huh—” Right on cue, an angry hiccup escapes me before I can stop it, and at this point, I couldn’t care less how weak it makes me look.
“Listen…” Syd’s eyes flutter-roll with visible annoyance. “Bruh, it was just one. Relax.”
Relax ? Bruh? Yeah, okay, sis.
“Wow!” Every inch of me boils with rage. “Listen, I’m gon’ be good. But the next time you want to take my picture without asking, maybe ask yourself if you’re ready for—” HICCUP !
And then she actually laughs.
“What you need to do is calm down before you give yourself palpitations.” She tugs the pencil from her hair, letting her braids fall down her back. “What were you going to say? Am I ready for a lawsuit?” Then, almost as an afterthought, she mutters, “Should be thanking me for the free publicity.”
For all of five seconds I consider going full reality-show meltdown, demanding to see the manager with a debutante smile and a gloved slap.
But in a divine moment of clarity, I hear Whit’s voice in my head.
We are not letting these bougie, low-vibrational folks define nor destroy your happiness one more day.
Low vibrational, indeed.
Why would I voluntarily give the Luxe Ladies fandom ammunition? They’re waiting for me to resurface on some blog so they can knock me back down.
“Cool.” I nod and smile.
She giggles. “Cooler.”
Lord, give me the strength.
I mentally brush it off. What did she even get out of this? One picture of me shopping for journals? Whoop-de-do. What are the blogs going to do with that?
As if she’s reading my mind, Syd pulls out her phone again and starts scrolling, that smug smile front and center. She flips the screen toward me, showing a picture—this one from last week, taken as I was entering the Sterling building for my appointment with Savanah.
I shrug, not following. “What’s this supposed to be?”
For a moment, I rack my brain, wondering why people are suddenly snapping photos of me again. Julian and I haven’t been together in a year. The divorce is final, so he can screw around with every woman in Ellswood to his heart’s delight. And I haven’t been on a single real date, so…
“Everyone’s saying you got a new man…” Syd trails off, her eyes flicking to my hands, and for a beat, I freeze.
And then it hits me.
The only person I’ve talked to about dating, aside from Savannah and the divas, is my loose-lipped mother. When was it, last week? I close my eyes against a long sigh, smiling to myself. If the blogs want to waste their time chasing down a nonexistent man, who am I to stop them?
“I’m telling you, I live rent-free in some of these folks’ heads,” I say, ready to let it go and give Mom an earful when I leave this place.
But then Syd looks me dead in the eye and says, “Can’t be too serious with that chalk line around your finger.
” As if she knows I only recently took off my wedding ring, and how could I be serious about anyone new when the tan line proves I’ve been holding on to the old one?
But she’s wrong. I wasn’t stuck on him—I was clinging to the old me.
Not like she deserves an explanation.
I’m stunned silent.
Then a shocked laugh escapes me, and I’m standing here, mouth open, utterly gobsmacked.
“You know what…” I unzip my purse, digging frantically around the bottom for my wallet, because this woman has outworn her welcome. “Let me hurry up and finish my purchase so I can move on with my day.”
I’m muttering under my breath as I pull out my credit card and quickly tap to pay, fully intending to let her keep the receipt, since it’ll be hell and high water before I set foot in this boutique again.
“Your ex is certainly moving on with his,” she says, casually, like it’s nothing.
With one simple sentence, she’s shaken the ground beneath my feet.
Another hiccup bubbles up. It takes every ounce of dignity and grace left in my body not to snatch that phone from her hands to see what she’s talking about.
The only thing that stops me is knowing that’s what she wants.
It’s what Nora and her whole fanbase want, and the unbothered woman I’m striving to be—the divorcétante—won’t give them the satisfaction.
Instead, I say, “Have the day you deserve.”
And I mean that with the utmost disrespect.
I manage to hold it together until I exit the shop and make my way a few stores down from the salon before I pull out my phone. My hands are trembling as I search for Julian’s name, my heart stuttering as the headline knocks the wind out of me.
Luxe Lady Nora Whitfield Expecting—And Julian Livingston III Is the Father!
A tidal wave of emotions hits me all at once.
For a beat, I just stare at it, processing the words, the weight of the situation sinking in.
My stomach twists with the bitter taste of betrayal.
After all the gaslighting, about let me try to win you back and I ended it to be with you , he’s back with her.
If he ever cut things off. He isn’t just building a life with the woman who tore ours apart. They’re having a baby.
As a text notification from Julian pops up on my screen, everything clicks—this is why Syd took my photo.
This is why people are snapping pictures of me walking into buildings.
Why I’ve become a blog topic. They want my tearful reaction to Nora’s pregnancy.
They want the drama, the trending gossip, the exclusive, scandalous content.
They want the shock value of seeing me broken.
Everything is content.
And boom, a quiet shift happens inside me.
Syd was absolutely right. Let them judge. Let them photograph me and fabricate their stories. They’ll find something to write about. They always do.
But I’m going to tell my side, too.
As I open my Notes app and save the article link to my Divorcétante Chronicles Ideas folder, I realize— maybe, just maybe —that free publicity is perfectly timed.