Chapter Eleven
Exes Mark the Spot
Ebony
“Remember, this is for you, not for her.” Savannah nods, softly. Her voice takes on an urgent intensity, encouraging me to unlock my phone. “When we make the decision to move on, it needs to be with conviction and action. No lingering regrets.”
Right, no regrets.
I take a deep breath as I sit opposite Savannah on her cream-colored sofa, staring down at Hillary’s contact.
The petty queen who lives inside me feels like, Hey, let bygones be bygones and get on.
I’m not the one who’s in the wrong, here.
So I’ll have no problem “in real life” muting and blocking.
Because I’ve called her more than once. I wrote a sentence in my journal.
Albeit, it was last night, and I knew Savannah would ask me about my homework progress today.
But also, it’s what, the eighteenth of June?
That’s more than a month since we’ve spoken, and the phone works both ways.
If she values this friendship, if it’s worth salvaging, why hasn’t she reached out to me?
Again, this isn’t for her, though.
“Here I go…” I tap Hillary’s name, fueled by Savannah’s authoritative yet approving smile. The line rings once before—
“Hey, you ’ve reached Hillary…”
Disconnecting the call— I will die a slow, soulless death before I leave a message —I set my phone in my lap, speechless. A humorless laugh huffs out of me. “Wow…”
Savannah uncrosses and recrosses her bare legs, the skirt of her sleek, cerulean-blue mock-neck midi dress flouncing into the air. “Would you like to share what happened?”
“Uh, this woman sent me to voicemail, that’s what.” I shake my head, still lost in my thoughts, a mix of powerlessness and curiosity swirling in my gut. This is so much deeper than ghosting me since Hailey’s engagement. This is something else entirely.
But what?
Frustrated, I lean forward, reaching for my coffee, and take a small sip.
To her credit, Savannah doesn’t rush me. She lets me feel every emotion coursing through me before she stands, rounds the table, and settles on the sofa beside me. “Would you like to share your journal entry?”
The letter that I tried—and never got more than a sentence through—to write to Hillary, she means.
She smiles one of those I’m reading between the lines smiles. “You didn’t write it.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I admit, sheepishly.
“And that’s okay.” She rests her warm hand on mine. “This is a journey. Remember when I said, ‘Take it one task at a time’? I wasn’t only referring to dealing with your ex-mother-in-law or event planning. I really want you to work on showing yourself the grace you deserve.”
I lower my gaze to our hands, nodding. I don’t think I realized how much I needed to hear this today.
“And I don’t know when you would’ve had time anyway. I see this new hair, the face,” she adds. “Okay, lips!”
A full-chested laugh tumbles out of me, loosening the tension. “It’s my new signature.” I pucker and pose, giving her Black-girl glam. “Red Dahlia from Diva Dolls, who may or may not have sent me a DM this morning offering a massive brand deal to the divorcétante.”
Savannah cranes her neck back, her appraising expression screaming, You ate and left zero crumbs!
“Speaking of…” She cocks her head, and I just know that whatever comes next is going to leave me giddy. “Shall we discuss the date that Leslie’s lined up for tonight?”
We might as well be preteens hollering about the school dance, the way we squeal.
“Oh my God , Savannah!” I deflate into the cushions, then immediately jolt right back up, ready to unload.
“Honey, the way I don’t know what to do with myself.
What the hell is a Wednesday date night?
I feel like I should ask Leslie more questions or make up a pre-date ritual.
Maybe do some emergency Google searches, preview the menu, or test out pheromone-enhancing perfumes, or something. ”
She snort-laughs.
“I know nothing about this man.” An equally unladylike laugh sputters out of me. “This is a true blind date. I’m completely trusting Leslie to deliver, because the last time I went on a date date…”
Savannah doesn’t miss a beat. “Uh-uh!” She wags her elegant pink nail at me. “Nope, what was that?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I choke on the words before they can leave. It’s not just the words—it’s everything else. The weight of it. The ache.
God , the ache.
I saw that intensity in Linc’s eyes last week in the library, the way he looked at me before he let me go.
And then without my consent, the memory slips so seamlessly into another.
One that’s so vivid it burns the surface of my mind.
Linc and I, crammed into the corner of that dingy college bar.
The air thick with the sour stench of spilled beer and too much Axe, mingled with dramatic sports commentary and brokenhearted emo songs.
The indistinct chatter, all blending together like radio static.
It was chaotic and messy, but somehow…it felt like home.
We were there, lost in the middle of it. We sat on those torn-up stools, laughing at the stupidest things like we didn’t have a care in the world, like we weren’t slowly losing the battle with temptation.
That’s the feeling I want back. That time when everything was easy. Just dreaming—no consequences, no pressure.
How do I put that on my dating profile?
Savannah closes her mouth, silently observing me. Graciously, she doesn’t intrude on the moment.
“There was someone,” I say, hesitating, choosing my words carefully. “A guy I think I would’ve chosen for myself, if Mom and Cornelia hadn’t been so set on their own plans back then.”
She nods, slowly. “I see. And where is he now?”
“He’s still around,” I say, but it’s Linc’s face that morning, a million years ago, when I woke up in his arms, that flashes across my mind.
Savannah’s question—and those memories—echo in my mind as I leave my appointment. They gnaw at me, replaying over and over all afternoon as I try to stay out of the way back at Madison Manor.
But… Linc.
He’s always here.
I swallow, twisting the clip of my pen between my teeth, my attention drifting to him.
He’s in every inch of Madison Manor, moving like a force of nature—sweat dripping from his brow, his thin gray T-shirt sticking and pulling tight across his shoulders and chest. And he doesn’t stop.
He just keeps going with a relentless drive as he unloads wood stacks from the trucks.
His muscles, draped in rich, dark brown skin, flex and stretch with every movement, each turn of his body taunting me—
“Did you need anything, Ebony?” Vincent catches me staring at Linc, and I almost choke on my pen. I quickly look away, but his cackles erupt into the air as I stumble over electrical cables, rushing back inside to the library, where it’s safe.
Ugh.
“Ebony, get a grip,” I chastise myself. “You cannot be the one who doesn’t pull her weight. Do something!”
And for a solid twenty-five minutes, I do a dozen somethings.
Turns out, repressing emotions is excellent for productivity.
I double down with the phone to my ear and fingers flying over the keyboard.
I follow up on my insurance claim, which is…
drum roll… further delayed because the adjuster needs to reach out to Cornelia as the CFO for JDC Livingston Inc.
, the family’s umbrella company, and the named insured on the policy.
Boo to the Gramm-Leach -Bliley blah blah blah Act.
The great news is that Hailey’s inbox is on fire.
The dress and tuxedo fittings are scheduled.
The guest list is still an ugly battle, but I get it narrowed to a nice, round three hundred, and almost finalized.
And, because distraction is apparently grade-A jet fuel, I’m in rare form, chopping it up with Syd’s manager down at that cute little stationery boutique—who, as it turns out, is a fan of the divorcétante.
Won’t he do it!
So, those elegant rose-gold invitations with the sweeping, foil-lined garden crest flourishes that Hailey wanted but thought it might be too late to get? Not only does my new bestie pull a few strings, but they are approved, ordered, and expedited, along with the matching enclosure cards.
At this rate, she might hand-deliver them if I promise to take a selfie with her.
Hailey, your girl is on fire.
No linens, wedding arch, or gorgeous ornate vases yet, because I refuse to replace them before I know I’m being reimbursed by insurance—and four of my rental supply contacts are booked up on September twentieth—but there’s still time.
We do, however, get dahlias and zinnias for the floral arrangements, alcoves, and bouquets.
Along with the officiant, I’ve lined up a makeup artist, a photographer, and a string quartet.
Winning is an extremely exhilarating high.
Except the instant I slow down, thinking about my re-debut date and what I’m going to wear for this mystery man, again, I hear Linc’s voice.
He’s in the ballroom, organizing the crew, calling out orders, racing from room to room and fixing everything in sight like some hard-wired machine, and it feels strangely symbolic.
I’m supposed to be dating, reinventing myself, starting anew. Yet with every step, Lincoln Bridges reminds me he’s a perfectly viable option. He’s always been right here.
He’ll always be here…anytime I want to take my eyes off my business long enough to let Cornelia Livingston sabotage me.
I stare at the door, my mind drifting back to the conversation with Savannah earlier. To the silence that lingered.
Where is he now?
I drag in a deep breath, still unsure how I should’ve answered.
Of course, I’ve been avoiding him, scheduling my hours not to overlap his. I can’t look at him, especially if there’s the slightest chance that he might look at me like he still wants me too. Every time I see him, my emotions fight against logic.
The irony of it all? Lately, Linc’s been giving me more space.