The Unfluencer (The Divatantes #2)

Prologue

Whitney

New Year’s Day

“We listen,” Chanel starts us off, laughing as we join in chorus, “And we don’t judge.”

The rest of us fall out cackling anyway.

“All I’m saying is, Laura watched him drink that wannabe ‘cool juice’ serum,” she says, standing ten toes down in her drunken “hear me out” proclamation that Steve Urkel is a better catch than Stefan Urquelle. “Shoot, give me a nerdy tech guy all day.”

I’m wheezing so hard, snapping my fingers in solidarity while fighting to catch my breath.

It’s been like this all night. Or is it morning?

I still don’t remember the exact moment midnight hit.

Even before the city counted down and lit up the sky with fireworks, Priscilla had already knocked over what was left of the charcuterie platter, and Ebony was off-key, slurring and serenading Linc at the top of her lungs near the firepit before they dipped out.

By the garden, Tatiana and Chanel were laughing and two-stepping through some complicated new slide dance, blatantly flirting with the hotel’s server trying to collect empty champagne flutes.

And me? I’ve just been… present in the moment, I guess.

That’s our promise.

Our tradition.

No matter what else changes—our age, our addresses, our relationship status—come New Year’s Eve, the Divatantes, Ebony, Priscilla, Tatiana, Chanel, and me, turn up together before we turn over the last page of the calendar.

Good times. Great spirits. The best of friends.

In my periphery, a tiny blur drifts near me, and I reach out and catch it. As soon as I register what it is, an idea sparks in my head.

Clearing my throat, I dig deep for my bougie rich auntie voice as I say with conviction, “This year, I will find my Michael B. Jordan and write the damn romance…”

The laughter subsides.

All eyes snap to me.

Then, as if they need a sec to let what I said sink in—the Smoke-Stack crusher, romantic ghostwriter-to-bestselling-author dream I just spoke aloud to the universe—the spotlight drifts to Tatiana.

“Yesss, queen!” Chanel tugs our diva into her arms, squeezing her. “Manifest that shit, sis,” she says, standing and walking over to take the tiny paper from her, before she holds it over the glowing fire pit’s flames and winks. “And I’ll see what I can do about Michael B. Jordan for you.”

She drops it into the fire.

We watch its descent as it incinerates into sparkly golden embers and disappears.

We all let out a collective gasp.

The air in the courtyard crackles with electric joy.

Like the universe has spoken, suddenly, we’re all scrambling, on hands and—very carefully—on thirty-something knees, gathering paper scraps.

“Come on, now, ebony queen!” Priscilla beams and shouts loud enough for our girl to hear us up in her and Linc’s suite.

“This year, together with Linc,” she reads aloud to us, “I will plan our beautiful, quietly sophisticated ceremony, and not let the pressure of planning a wedding stop us from enjoying each other.”

Hand to her chest, her face lights up like she personally manifested Ebony and Linc’s romantic whirlwind reunion this past summer.

“Y’all, I’m so ridiculously happy for her.” Priscilla blinks up, a little teary-eyed. But then she swipes under her eyes and sticks her tongue out, laughing. “But also, the gag is, more Tyler Lepleys for me!”

Following Chanel’s lead, she tosses Ebony’s paper into the pit.

It floats on a gusty breeze, sending sparks, glowing neon orange, into the air.

We go on like this for another twenty minutes. Huddling close, reading, excitedly snapping our fingers, and forging our wishes in flames. No more dating app trials and tribulations, meeting “the one,” finding love, and getting married. New cars, dreamy vacations, bucket list adventures.

The courtyard goes so quiet, I swear I hear the universe eavesdropping on us.

“I can’t wait until I find mine,” Chanel muses, vaguely.

Tatiana and Priscilla wistfully hum their agreement, their attention fixed on a blanket of stars dotted across a deep indigo blue sky.

Meanwhile… did I miss an episode?

I’m still stuck on the “what” they’re impatiently awaiting. A constellation? A shooting star? A paper scrap dream vacation and a brand-new-car Showcase Showdown?

The theatrical sighs are taking me out, though.

“Um…” I’m fighting for my life not to laugh. “Find your what?”

All three of their heads snap up, eyes on me. Again.

It’s low-key terrifying.

I flit my gaze to the side, confused. “Yes?”

“Our Lincs.” Chanel laughs, as if asking the universe to crank out a bunch of perfect fiancé clones should’ve been a given.

It’s quiet for a split second.

“Oh,” I say, finally.

And it’s literally the only word that comes out of my mouth. But apparently, that singular word and slight pause must’ve had a whole silent soliloquy attached to it, because they all jolt upright, faces twisted like I personally chewed up and spat out their dream men for breakfast.

Chanel nods, wordlessly, lower lip protruding.

It’s truly a masterclass in dramatic acting. The smile. The blinking eyes. The little eyebrow bounce as she shifts her attention to her side and, out of nowhere, produces another paper strip between her dainty fingers.

“Finally book a tropical vacation,” she recites, dryly.

A collective round of snaps echoes around the courtyard as she releases it into the pit. The paper fizzles into barely a blip of a spark, which, honestly, feels sort of anticlimactic when there must be a good dozen or so of my resolutions floating around near the firepit flagstone.

But then, from her abundant, sequin-trimmed cleavage, Chanel pulls out another paper and continues reading.

“Get a full health screening by end of March…” She lets the words hang on the wood-smoked breeze before she clutches her heart, giving the performance of a lifetime. “Groundbreaking, am I right?”

Wow.

Another one of my resolutions.

Same as last year’s. Probably the year before that, too.

My major goals don’t change. Prioritize health.

Water my friend relationships. Dream big.

Hence the tropical travel manifestation.

Of course, there’s other one-offs and bucket list items because wine, puzzles, and a clean home to watch action-packed romance movies are high-key self-care.

“Oh, so it’s a crime to be practical.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Got it.”

Priscilla chuckles softly.

“You know that’s not what you’re doing, right?” Tatiana winces like she’s secondhand embarrassed for me. “These aren’t just practical resolutions. If we scrounged up the rest of your scraps scattered around this courtyard, not one would be about love or relationships.”

I nod, repeatedly.

“Unpopular opinion: love isn’t the only option for a New Year’s resolution.

” I reach for the first glass I see and toss back the last dregs of prosecco, thinking how much better this conversation would’ve been with a pina colada in my hand to help wash down the exhaustion.

“This is diabolical, y’all know that, right?

There’s plenty of time for settling down, if ever.

But yeah, you can keep going if you want. ”

“Oh, I will,” Chanel says, all petty, no point.

I slouch back against the cushion. Then immediately snap upright again because I’m restless, irritated, and not about to let this be the start to my year.

“Just curious, though.” I feel my upper lip curling. “Um, so I’m on the same page, what happened to we listen and we don’t judge?” Because I’m absolutely judging. The tunnel vision with romance is insane. But also, I keep my thoughts to myself like a normal, emotionally avoidant Scorpio.

Priscilla, my girl, rests her hand on my arm. “Listening. Not judging,” she says, sweetly.

“Thanks, sis.”

Case in point, why I will always have her back. Even though… I still can’t look at her in those gigantic black sunglasses with a straight face.

An exhausted laugh tumbles out of me.

The thing is, I figured tonight would simply be a reprieve from the world. Champagne, cheese, and dancing with my divas until we closed out the year on a high. But trying to center my life goals around men, when there are zero—straight ones, at least—in my life worth a damn? Nuh uh.

“Okay, no, we’re not about to—”

“Oh my God! Be so for real—” Chanel breaks off mid-theatrical proclamation when her phone pings loudly, and she glances at her screen.

“Oop, the blogs are blogging. The OG Luxe Ladies are trending.” She smacks her wine-stained lips, her dark, wispy, not-so-messy bun snapping to attention as she eyes us, clearly annoyed that we don’t ask her to elaborate.

“Anyway, your face is loud, and your resolutions are louder. We see you sitting there like you’ve been marked safe from all the ro-mess—”

“What are we even talking about?” And why is my face so loud?

A hysterical laugh tumbles out of me.

Is she making up words now? Is that what we’re doing under Obama’s moon?

“Romance mess,” Tatiana clarifies helpfully for the word-masher challenged.

I peek up at the iridescent moon, shaking my head because, yes, apparently, dating in general is exactly that bad.

“Oh my God, can we not and keep going with the resolutions?” I groan, already sensing the matchmaking love hunt loading.

“Why yes, I’d love to take a cooking class.

With. My. Friends.” I punctuate each word with a pointed stare at Priscilla and Tatiana, who, as of now, still seem reasonable.

“Or maybe photography or pole dancing? What about knife throwing—”

“Or speed-dating?” Priscilla tosses out, and I deflate into the firm cushions.

And we’re just going to move on from that now.

I’ve lost all hope of winning against the pro-dating-app-trials-and-settle-down-with-a-unicorn-man crew.

I let out a short sigh.

“Hell, we could even take the Lay’s challenge, for all I care. Is it possible to eat just one? Who knows? But we’ll never know if we don’t try something—anything—new.” Good Lord.

It’s that simple.

Every bone in my thirty-six-year-old body is pleading, What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WAAAANT?