Prologue #2
To step into a spick-and-span house fully stocked with crisp white wine and a fresh stack of colorful, thousand-word puzzles to decompress from the dumpster fire world we’re living in.
That’s what I want. I’d also love to knock out all my doctor visits in the first quarter of the year, and somehow, someway, finally carve out time for a getaway to paradise—solo, if necessary—because everything isn’t always about locking down a man who’s probably sowing his royal oats everywhere but at home.
Truly, the options are endless.
And what happened to waiting until our Lord sees fit to bring Mr. Dream Lover into our lives?
When I glance back at Chanel, she blinks repeatedly, and it’s only now that I register her dark eyebrows knitted together, hurt glistening in her eyes.
Oh, she’s serious.
“Look, why does it bother you so much that I’m not rushing, prioritizing loooove?” I drag the word out playfully, hoping to add a little levity back to this conversation. “What’s so wrong with waiting and working on me in the meantime, hmm?”
Chanel claps her hands, slicing them through the tense air like she’s drawing the line on this topic, and I think, Yes, let’s.
But then she closes her eyes for a split second, and when she opens them her tone is low, measured, as she says, “But hypothetically…”
She’s not going to let this go.
“Fine.” I sigh, letting all the air out. “Ugh. Fine.”
The three wise women sit up, completely geeked.
“On the extremely off chance you’d consider spending more than one night with a man,” Tatiana prefaces like they’ve got this all worked out, “what would make him perfect for you? What would he look like?”
“What qualities?” Chanel adds.
Priscilla is beyond giddy as she leans in all dreamy-eyed like she’s prepared to take notes, hunt this man down, and next-day-deliver him to me. “And how would he sweep you off your silk-lined power stilettos?”
I plop back against the sofa, laughing and already exhausted by my well-meaning divas who refuse to leave well enough alone. Instinctively, I know, deep down in my bones, that there’s no coming back from this.
“Okay,” I say hesitantly, tugging the wool blanket tighter around our shoulders against the smoky evening chill.
We snuggle together.
“So, first of all…” I roll my eyes, chuckling. “As evidenced by my own double-dipping father, most men have proven to be either already in a relationship, sexually confused, dangerous, in need of therapy, married, or any—and all—of the above.”
Priscilla’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God, facts! That resonates with every synapse in my frontal lobe.”
We all laugh.
The way she’s been hopping on and off her merry-go-round relationship with her boo, the dating pool is clearly failing her.
“But, if for some strange reason, I was in a rush, the universe is showing me a clear-cut sign,” I say, resolute.
“Like, if this man was made especially for me, he’d be a tall, Black, athletic type.
Early-ish forties. Maybe a little facial hair, goatee, trim mustache.
” I stare at the fire, lost in the creative process.
“Suit, tux, sweats, doesn’t matter. He dresses for comfort and ease, but in quality threads.
Probably only has, like, four pairs of jeans, but they’re one size fits one.
They submit to his lean, chiseled muscles—”
“Damn,” Tatiana moans.
Again, we fall out laughing, but I’ll admit this to no one: I’m actually enjoying this—and I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.
“His character is the sexiest thing about him, though.” A soft sigh slips out of me.
This part I’ve actually thought long and hard about.
“He’s confident. Quietly authoritative with an easy charm.
His job is probably fast-paced, high pressure, so it requires him to have a Type A cerebral edge.
But he’s driven by purpose, vision. Some deep-rooted mission, and it has nothing to do with money. ”
“And that turns you on?” Chanel says, genuinely trying to understand, and I love her for it.
I nod, smiling. “Like catnip.”
Dropping my head into my hands, I fall into a fit of giggles because… what am I even saying?
“To be clear, I do realize that I just sculpted a unicorn man out of thin air, so none of this is real.”
When I pop my head up, Chanel’s smile is equal parts amused and smug I know something you don’t.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her black bob dusting her shoulders. “No joke, Whit. You just described Warner Easton to a T.”
I frown. “Warner who?”
“Girl…” Priscilla shrugs. “Sherry Easton. Zion & Zara deb, two years ahead of us.” She smacks her teeth when the memory isn’t jogged. “OG Luxe Lady of Ellswood. The one who threw the blow dryer at Nora Whitfield, got kicked off the show, and was doxxed until she went into hiding?”
“Oh yeah, I remember her.” I chuckle, still confused.
“Mm-hmm. Warner’s her fine-ass tech mogul husband,” Tatiana clarifies, for what purpose I’m still not sure, because what are we even talking about?
Didn’t she just say husband?
“Like I said, in a relationship, married, unavailable, probably narcissistic—”
“And a nerdy tech guy.” Chanel waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “So, Urkel’s your type, too?”
A laugh sputters out of me.
“Um, hello? Are y’all hearing yourselves? Husband.” I frown, utterly confused about when we stopped respecting the sanctity of marriage. “Thank you, next.”
“I don’t know, Whit.” Priscilla dips her chin, holding my gaze. “The streets have been talking. Might be trouble in paradise—”
“Ugh, hard nope!” I shrug. “So, he’s also in need of therapy and healing, and possibly sexually confused.”
Chanel plops back against the cushions.
“Maybe not for long…”
My entire face screws up at the thought of ambulance-chasing this man’s wreckage of a marriage.
Just… no.
“No, she’s right, we don’t need any situationships,” Tatiana reasons. “But at least we know your type now, Whit. A little Aldis Hodge with a cup of Damson Idris, throw in that fine-ass baseball player from Chicago with the thick thighs. Yesss, toss in a few money bags and a high-powered career…”
I burst out laughing. “Thank you, please stop now.”
Priscilla’s expression softens. “No pressure—we won’t do anything you don’t want us to,” she says, as if she didn’t single-handedly spearhead the movement to turn this flaming paper-strip manifesto activity into a game of truth-or-date.
“Great.” I flash a huge smile. “So, we agree. Let’s just… leave it alone.”
Shocker to absolutely no one, my good sis Chanel can’t ever just leave well enough alone for five seconds.