Chapter Eleven #2
After that first lunch order—since he overheard my dating concierge consultation with Leslie—he’s kept his distance.
But somehow, he’s still always here.
I’m talking to the caterer, and I hear him barking orders to his crew. I’m discussing dress alterations, and I catch him walking through the hallway, seeming completely oblivious to me, focused entirely on the task at hand.
I bite my lip, lost in the memory of Linc and me.
What would Savannah have said if I told her Linc’s not just “around”?
That he’s in the same building, mere feet away from me, in the legendary grand ballroom that’s witnessed countless love stories?
What advice would she have given if I confessed that we’re working side by side to ensure this wedding goes off without a hitch?
PING!
My phone cuts through the silence, snapping me out of my thoughts.
When I look at the screen, my heart stalls.
Hillary Winston
I’m sorry. I’m not ready to explain yet, but I will soon.
I stare at the message, every inch of me screaming, That’s it? Just a half-assed apology and an open-ended date when we’ll meet?
Fire surges through my veins, my body vibrating with the urge to lash out. But I won’t give it any more energy. Not today.
The day isn’t over, but it might as well be. I stand, smoothing the puff sleeves of my cosmo-flower blouse, and grab my things. Hillary, Linc , all the emotions feel too tangled and messy.
Tonight, I’m taking Savannah’s advice and giving myself grace. I just want to focus on something uncomplicated. Something good.
My date.
I glance at my desk. On a deep breath, I walk out of the office, past Linc, leaving the weight of the day behind.
Two hours later, it’s just me, my Red Dahlia lipstick, and my divas helping me choose a date-night dress for my first Divorcétante Chronicles live Get Ready with Me video.
“Okay, are y’all ready?” I ask.
Whitney and Priscilla are stretched out on my bed, phones in hand, not paying me a lick of attention, so I finish setting up my ring-light stand and angle my phone toward the hall closet between my bedroom and en suite bathroom.
“Ebony, have you been reading the comments?” Whit asks, her thumb steadily gliding up the screen.
“Only a handful here and there,” I explain. “Too many Luxe Ladies trolls.”
She hums her agreement. “No, I get it, but…there are some great ones here.” Her smile widens as she listens to my first video on replay. “‘I’m seated with my mug awaiting the freshly brewed tea,’ ‘We need the skincare routine,’ ‘Out here defying gravity.’ These folks are hilarious.”
“Oh, no, that’s not even my favorite,” Priscilla says, seeming fully invested.
“For me, it’s a toss-up between ‘Pause, peace, power. I’m stealing that,’ ‘That face card,’ and ‘Standing on principle. That’s that 92 percent energy!
’” She’s breathless, and her shoulders tremble.
“She’s really over here, building a fandom out the thin air like it’s no big deal. ”
I deflate into an amused sigh. “I love the ones that are like, ‘I broke my neck running to the comment section.’”
“ Lissstennnn .” Whit sits upright. “This mystery man is about to be on a date with a bona fide celebrity and doesn’t even know it.”
A laugh tumbles out of me. “I don’t know him . Which is why I need to hurry up and get this video started.”
Priscilla pops up too, giving me her full attention.
I position myself in front of my phone, open the PopShot app, and take a deep breath before I press the live button.
A three-second countdown starts, and then it’s just me…plus a thousand people, and counting.
“Hey, divas, the divorcétante is here! Tonight, I’m live-streaming for the first time…with great reason!”
Tiny bursts of animated hearts, flowers, and coins rain down on the screen as the comments climb like vines.
“We love the drama. Nothing like some exclusive, scandalous content.”
I look into the camera, curving my red lips teasingly.
“But what if tonight is about something better? What if it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for?”
We’re over ten thousand viewers on a Wednesday night in less than a minute, and the comments are a scrolling blur of excitement, flying up the page.
“It’s our date night! I announce, twirling in my lavender satin robe. Y’all, I’m so excited to meet this guy. Excited to put myself out there again. Pumped to see if there’s any chemistry, am I right?
“So, the reservation is at seven thirty, and no, I’m not telling you where. But I’ve got the address, and three hours to get ready and meet him there.”
Hearts explode, as glorious and triumphant as I feel.
Whitney and Priscilla are cackling and carrying on as they join the live—for moral support—along with our other two divas, Tatiana and Chanel, joining in the comment section, adding their tiny animated flowers to the fray.
Plus, they add a few I love Black women comments, to keep the general merriment going.
“Now, you might’ve heard a bunch of giggling and keekee-ing in the background. That’s because my divas are here with me tonight to help us out. See, I was hoping, since we’re live, I might do a Help Me Decide spin on the Get Ready with Me for this date night. So, are y’all staying with me?”
The viewer count continues to grow.
Right on cue, Whit turns a Black Girl R&B playlist on low— For ambiance , she mouths—and I’m absolutely here for it.
“Okay, so far, we’re going with the new hair.
I’m loving my new cut. For the makeup, this is the beat.
I went with a soft, glowy complexion, amping up the sultry look with a smoky eye and winged liner for the drama.
Always bring the drama.” I laugh. “And, of course, my Red Dahlia lip. Done and done.
“Now, this is where you come in. I’ve got three outfit options. Classy chic diva, spicy vixen, and dazzling, grown, and sexy. So, let’s choose an outfit.”
I dash out of view to where I’ve set aside each look, and I quickly shimmy into a simple pleated and belted black minidress.
“Okay, let’s get into this classy chic diva, I say, posing and playing up my angles. Easy, elegant, sexy, no fuss. I’ll pair it with diamond studs, black strappy heels, a statement clutch…”
I lean in to see what the consensus is, and the comments do not disappoint.
A full-body laugh washes over me as I take in the onslaught of “no”s, thumbs-down emojis, and the glaring Is sexy in the room with us?
“Um, so I’m just going to go, and, uh…tear this off my body.”
Unfortunately, I barely make it into shot in the sleeveless bronze sequin scoop-neck midi dress that I picked for the “dazzling, grown, and sexy” option before it’s shot down, too.
Not that I didn’t switch up the order on purpose, secretly hoping they’d go for the spicy vixen because, frankly, even keel isn’t going to cut it tonight.
I need high romance. Elegant, but summery. Flirty.
“Yes, I know what time it is. It’s six thirty-two, so y’all better love this last one, because we are fresh out of options.”
When I step out in the black bustier wrap Bodycon minidress that’s molded to my curves, I feel all twenty-five thousand pairs of eyes trailing from the thin spaghetti straps to the sweetheart neckline, inching lower to the sheer lace bodice.
Heat singes my skin as I sway to the smooth, soulful music.
“Is this too much? Because I think this is the one.”
“It’s giving icon, legend, the whole moment,” Whit says, passing me a champagne flute.
Priscilla clinks my glass with hers, then Whit’s, before she takes a long pull of the effervescent amber liquid. “It’ll be perfect with the strappy stilettos and diamond-drop earrings…”
I smile at the screen. “Not going to lie, y’all. I’m feeling this outfit.”
Before I end the live, I scan the incoming comments to answer a few questions.
“Let’s see… Yes, I’ll give you all a little update after the date. The lipstick is Red Dahlia by Diva Dolls. And yes, I’ll be including all the links in my shop by tomorrow.”
I keep scanning, thanking everyone for all the love, and skipping past the Luxe Ladies questions because there’s zero chance that I’m letting them ruin my night.
I’m just about to thank my viewers for getting ready with me tonight and remind them about the private mixer Leslie scheduled for me in August when my finger hovers over the most recent comment…from Bridges Heritage Conservation.
Breathtaking.
You good? Whit mouths from my periphery.
I jerk back, forcing an unnaturally wide smile. “Mm-hmm, yup, yeah… So, that’s it. Thanks for getting ready with me.”
Except maybe I should’ve asked them to wish me luck, because at exactly seven thirty p.m., I walk into the Golden Olive with my heart in my stomach.
The hostess escorts me to the table, and either my mind is playing tricks on me, or my date—I can’t be sure yet, since I haven’t counted his fingers—looks like a disturbingly asymmetrical, AI-generated version of Lincoln Bridges.
It’s a disaster.