Chapter Fifteen
Mixed Up
Ebony
I’m addicted to kissing Lincoln Bridges.
There, I said it. Because…
Lord , help me!
We’ve been sneaking into every room of Madison Manor for the last three weeks, finding little corners to steal moments in the shadows, a mess of lips and tongues and hands, like teenagers. I can’t explain it, except to say it’s a relentless pull. Just this overwhelming force that draws me to him.
Let’s say the florist I wanted was booked, but after some calls and scouring the interwebs, I find a website with tiered cakes, lush flower arrangements, and charming sunset wedding photos—and the owner is available.
Or I learn my favorite bakery shut down six months ago, but after chatting with the owner on a divorcétante post, she’s now working exclusively with me.
In my mind, I deserve a little reward, right?
Next thing I know, I’m slipping into the billiard room, closing the door behind me, and suddenly Linc and I are lost in each other, lip-locked, inching toward more.
So far, it’s just been kissing and a little—okay, a lot —of recreational dry humping.
But the desire to take things further? It’s there, constant, like a little red devil tapping me on the shoulder, telling me how good it feels. Take what you want, it says. Be bad. Everybody’s doing it …
Ugh.
And that’s the cycle—bursts of productivity followed by mind-numbing kisses, leaving me wanting more. But there’s no lasting peace because I’m already thinking about the next one.
Just shameless.
Today, Linc finished up the stained-glass window repairs and needed to make an “important phone call” outside in one of the gardens—of course, due to the noise levels.
Couldn’t have been because he knew, thirty seconds later, we’d be dipped behind a hydrangea bush, sucking face and avoiding bee stings.
Nope.
Regardless, Linc’s still heavy on my mind as I leave work early, battling traffic and drizzle to get home and change for tonight’s mixer.
It feels strange, spending the afternoon making out and climbing Mount Bridges in the billiard room, then somehow planning to walk into a room full of suitors like I’m ready to give them any sort of real shot.
But there’s no time to overthink. This is my last scheduled event with Leslie, and maybe I’ll cancel the concierge service after this. Maybe.
But right now, I’ve got to send Hailey and Donovan a quick progress update and a to-do list, and shower, within the next ninety minutes.
“Serena, turn on my Melanin Magic playlist.”
A smooth neo-soul rhythm fills the air as I kick off my heels and settle at the dining table, quickly pulling out my laptop from my tote.
I check a few emails from Mom about the cotillion that will not go away, and one from Savannah, rescheduling our next appointment, before drafting a new message to Hailey and Donovan.
My fingers move rapid-fire over the keys, first providing the probate court hours to submit documentation and the fee for the marriage license.
Then I update the seating chart—Hailey’s bougie, drama-magnet friend Renee has to be moved away from her ex-husband and closer to Nora Whitfield.
Shocker . Next, I report that all vendor selections are finalized and attach the signed agreements, relieved this email is moving faster than expected.
Finally, I’m sharing vow-writing ideas and gift suggestions for the couple, plus thank-yous to the wedding party, when my phone buzzes across the glass surface of the table.
I glance at the screen. I’m jarred.
“Julian?”
My first instinct is to let him go to voicemail, because why is he calling me, interrupting my peace?
But overwhelmingly, I’m shocked, a little surprised, and filled with dread.
Curiosity and anxiety tangle in my chest because I’ve left a dozen texts unanswered, but he never calls . We don’t call each other anymore. Ever.
What does he want?
My mind immediately nose-dives into bad-news territory. Is someone hurt? One of his brothers, Hailey, or even Cornelia? Worse, has his man-radar gone off and he somehow know about Linc and me? Is there a me and Linc? Lord, Ebony…
Reluctantly, I tap to answer.
“Yes, what’s up?” There’s silence, and at first, I wonder if maybe he’s butt-dialed me, so I check the screen again. “Julian?”
“Oh, I didn’t actually think you’d answer,” he says, and annoyance creeps over my skin.
I sigh. “Well, I did. So, again, is there something you needed? I’ve got things to do.”
He stalls, and I’m halfway expecting him to tell me something messy, like he’s disputing Nora’s pregnancy and waiting for the results of a paternity test. Or worse, to apologize and beg me to come back to him. Again.
But then he says, “You know those undershirts you used to buy for me? Where’d you get them? I can’t find them anywhere.”
The rage that boils inside me is lethal.
I’m so amazed by the sheer audacity of this man, who has already asked for my mom’s spaghetti sauce recipe, the Wi-Fi password, and which detergent I use because his clothes don’t smell like they used to.
And now this…this overgrown clown who never appreciated all the things I did for him dares fix his lips to ask where to buy his favorite undershirts?
“Disrespectfully, Julian…screw all the way off, and figure it out like I had to do for over a decade. While you’re at it, lose my number. I’ll never want you back.”
I stab my finger on the widget, disconnecting the call, my good mood gone. I’m restless, and angry, just staring at the phone like it’s at fault, when my attention shifts to the time.
I’ve still got ten more minutes before I need to shower and get dressed to leave.
Quickly grabbing my ring light, I affix my phone to it, open the PopShot app, and press the ‘live’ button.
“Hey there, friends. I wasn’t planning to post yet, but I just got a call from my ex-husband.”
It’s so messy, and I would log off right now if I had any sense.
I’m the divorcétante . I’m supposed to be this put-together example of a woman flourishing post-divorce.
I’ve got new clothes and a fierce new haircut.
I’m a lipstick brand ambassador. I’ve filed a trademark on the phrase “pause, peace, power” because it’s now part of the global lexicon. I should be the bigger person…
“Remember that first video, when I promised I’d give you the scandal? The shock-value, trending, viral, smear-campaign drama that you want?
“Well, I feel like I’ve short-changed you on that a bit. I jumped straight into reinventing myself outside of that family’s dynasty and the fandoms. I put decorum and etiquette first. I was so eager to prove I’d moved beyond anger and pettiness.
“But today, that man called my phone to ask me where I used to buy his undershirts, y’all. His damned undershirts!”
The viewer count and comments start zipping up the screen.
“And you know what? I think that act of violence affords me the right to tell you that I’m pissed, no, furious that I wasted almost ten years of my life on a man who begged for my time, then wasted it.
“Am I angry about the infidelity and the divorce? Hell yes. But also, I feel like you should know that the affair with that woman was just the final straw.”
The comments section is on fire.
Glad you left his ass.
Decenter men!
Not the undershirts being the last straw.
We love you, Divorcétante!
Honey, congratulations on your prison release.
I laugh, shaking my head.
“And I love you back. I’m so grateful. Thank you, truly, for holding space for me.
“For so long, this man made me feel invisible. He overlooked a million tiny labors I did to keep him happy and our house feeling like a home.
“That single call reminded me he doesn’t miss me as a person—he misses the perks of being married to me. Magically, the dishes were always clean and the microwave was spotless—am I right, friends? The towels washed themselves, and there was never any dust.
“Well, you know what? All you folks out there who feel ‘blindsided’ when she asks for a divorce? She’s been making all the magic happen. All the invisible labor. She’s the house cleaner, short-order cook, personal admin, and laundry maiden. She’s been doing it all, unappreciated.”
Magically walked out that door, too.
Left mine after twenty-five years. Never looked back. Best decision I ever made.
Baybee, he didn’t know his mate from his mom.
Men know what they’re doing. Weaponized incompetence!
The gaslighting…
My face when I got the word my divorce was finalized
And yet he’s baffled.
“Yes! Hello, the divorce didn’t come from out of nowhere. He had almost ten years to change and didn’t.
“Y’all, I couldn’t see it back then, but I was slowly disappearing with every unnoticed act. Now, I couldn’t be happier to be a walkaway wife. In fact, I wish I’d left sooner. Phew!”
A huge weight lifts off me, and I feel like I’m breathing easier.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go, but I’ll leave you with this. Exit immediately if you’re unhappy, and if you choose to find someone else, make sure that person is willing to give the help, support, and love you need.
“For me? I want someone who’ll show up, you know? He’s got to meet me halfway and keep the romance alive.”
I sing that last part, shimmying my shoulders for the divas.
“That’s all for now. As always, pause, peace, power.”
An hour, two dress changes, one very apt “grateful for my Calming Water Sounds playlist” journal entry, and three almost-called-Linc moments later, I’m at the mixer.
It’s in a private room at a swanky downtown hotel, and I’m rubbing elbows with Ellswood’s crème de la crème, chatting and looking fierce in a tailored black velvet gown with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit, cinched unbreathably tight with a diamond-encrusted belt.
Also, I’m bored out of my mind.