Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Whitney
Noblesse Oblige
On my phone screen, Priscilla, my heartbroken little hermit, stares at me puffy-eyed, exhausted, and curled up beneath her blankets at home.
“He left again.” She forcefully blows her nose into a tissue. “God, I love him so much, Whit. I just don’t know what to do.” Fresh rivers of rage tears stream over her flushed cheeks onto her pillow.
Lord, it’s killing me not to jump through this phone right now and go straight down the tough-love route.
Point out all the crimson-red flags. Reiterate for the millionth time why a man who leaves her in shambles, questioning her self-worth on a quarterly basis, doesn’t deserve her, and she should immediately block, delete, and repeat on every device and social media app.
What world is this we’re living in? That man waited until Sunday night to break up with her over the heinous crime of playing tennis with Chance.
Who does that?
Apparently, he couldn’t bear starting the workweek carrying leftovers from Saturday night.
So now it’s Monday, and thank God Clive’s holding down the fort at the Artery while I hide underneath my own blankets, and try not to think about my sad vagina, or the fact that Warner agreed to call about Sherry’s collection today before bolting from the bathroom like he was being chased—because evidently this is the energy my girl’s week is bringing.
It’s a damn shame, too.
This is Priscilla. My sweet bleeding heart of a sister-friend who forgives way too easily. I can’t tell her, like I told Ebony post-divorce, not to cower. To reclaim her identity. Priscilla’s soft-hearted.
So, for the sake of her fragile heart—and because I’ve already ignored half a dozen calls from my grandmother, who’s determined to discuss how my comments about Warner to that vlogger ended up “on the worldwide web” and brought scandal on the Graves family name—I steer the conversation sharply left.
“I get it,” I say.
Easy does it.
Priscilla’s red-rimmed brown eyes flicker to mine as she sniffles. She’s searching my expression, waiting for the lie. The crease between her eyebrows might as well be saying, Who are you, and where’s my friend?
I want to raise my hand and say I’m right here, just casually waiting on my potentially life-altering gyno lab results while battling a double-edged sword of loathing Warner Easton for not calling yet and still wanting to see him again.
Almost as much as the headlines want us together.
But evidently, this is my shiny new life now, so she just doesn’t recognize me anymore.
Instead, I make my voice somber. “It truly hurts my heart seeing you like this, Pri…”
I let out a soft sigh, fully aware I might be laying it on too thick. But I can’t do the same thing I’ve always done, hoping for different results.
“It does?”
Her tiny, disbelieving laugh lifts through a hiccupping sob.
“Sis, I know once the heart’s involved, it’s hard to let go. I hear you,” I say, even though I’m absolutely not listening, nor convinced.
Trent Underwood? Of all the Black men in Ellswood, Georgia, he’d never be considered a catch even if he were made of leather and shaped like a well-used baseball mitt.
For one, he’s a trifling trust-fund trash bag who calls himself a private commercial pilot, when really, he’s playing with Daddy’s airplanes “for a living.”
Puh-lease.
And two, more than anything, I hate that he’s made her his woman in a bottle. He keeps her stowed on his shelf, collecting dust, away from any other decent man with forthright intentions who might actually love and appreciate her. All so he can break her open whenever his ego needs boosting.
Honestly, hits a little too close to home for me.
“Wow.” Priscilla gasps softly, her walls visibly crumbling right in front of my eyes. “It’s just… I know Trent isn’t perfect, Whit. Believe me, I do. Far from it.” You can say that again. “But the thing is, he’s perfect for me. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Not even a little.
A genuine smile breaks over her splotchy, tear-streaked face, brightening her whole demeanor, and I almost lose my nerve to say my next words.
“Define perfect,” I say.
Mid-sob, Priscilla pops upright in her pink satin bonnet, looking downright befuddled. “Wait, what do you mean?”
To be fair, this tactic isn’t part of the routine.
Usually, the chosen diva (read: the unlucky friend tasked with consoling duties—i.e.
, me today) stays with her while she, unbathed, in darkness with the blinds shut, severely deficient in vitamin D, rage-cries herself into the eye of a tissue tornado.
And, of course, to really drive the dagger into the broken pieces of her heart, we watch romcoms. Not the fun, action-packed ones like The Lost City or Shotgun Wedding.
The predictably saccharine-sweet ones that end with a kiss.
Another missed-call notification from my grandmother drops from the top of my screen. I’m on borrowed time until she enlists my mother to do her dirty work and track me down for a verbal lashing.
“You said he’s perfect for you. I’m just asking why,” I say absently, just as a text from Ebony appears, checking on our girl.
Quickly, I tap out a response.
Whitney
Stay tuned.
But then I notice a string of recent messages in the group chat that Tatiana created this morning, minus Priscilla.
Tatiana
Whit, I’m looking at these photos, and DIVA!!! You got some ’splaining to do.
Ebony
Y’all looked real cozy up in that tiny bathroom together.
Tatiana
Honeyyyy, the camera never lies. Did you see his hand on her waist? Rock the boat all they want to, I’m never leaving this ship.
Chanel
Ooh, we are cordially invited to the media storm of Warner and Whitney.
Ebony
Cute.
Chanel
Oop, look at this one.
“Ugh, can I pass?”
Priscilla deflates into a miserable groan, making me look up from the Scandal Exposes Secret Sparks clipping.
“Is your heart broken?” I ask, officially, because this is what happens when two divas spiral at the same time. We divide the mope. We talk, ask questions, pass the baton. Basically, the three-legged Trauma Olympics, minus the potato sacks, and she gets to go first.
Heartbreak always outranks headlines.
“Nope, if Trent’s made for you, it should be easy to rattle off a few reasons why.
” I close the chat and tuck myself tighter into my covers, determined to be present for the friend who isn’t romanticizing my PR catastrophe with a potential client.
Even if he’s single and fine as hell. “The way I see it, your heart deserves, minimum, three reasons.”
She huffs softly. “Aren’t you supposed to be consoling me?”
“That’s an Ebony or Tatiana thing,” I say, setting the proper expectations. “I made no such promise.”
She’s still giggling. “It’s implied.”
“Ma’am, it’s been, what, six years with him?”
“Ugh. Shouldn’t that be even more reason?” Priscilla flexes her fingers, still trying to shake some sense into this air-fried version of Trent. “Whit, he sees me.”
I tip my head to either side. “Of course, feeling seen, chosen, it’s great. But validation isn’t connection, boo. Sorry. Trust me, being emotionally invested in someone not invested in you comes at too high a price.”
See exhibits A through Z of my family tree.
“Listen, if I could trade shoes with you, turn my heart into titanium”—again, Priscilla huffs softly—“I absolutely would. With the quickness.” She props herself up on one elbow, getting good and comfortable to pass the baton. “Speaking of…”
I flick my gaze to the side. Oh, we are not about to turn this into more of a ro-mess than it already is.
“I have the baton.” I lift up my makeshift baton—my TV remote—into the air, waiting for her to concede my power over the vent.
When she finally relents, I smile, then immediately dive into my biggest gripe.
“I’m still pissed at the level of audacity it took for that man to traipse into my gallery at the end of the night. ”
“At least he wasn’t a no-show.” Priscilla sweetly, unnecessarily gives Warner grace.
“Might as well have been,” I scoff. “He didn’t ask me one question about the gallery, how I’d display Sherry’s collection, nothing. And I saw him watching me earlier, too.”
“Oh, he was?”
I sit upright on my bed, tucking my legs, crisscross applesauce. “I was in the back, checking a voicemail from my gyno, right? My appointment was on Thursday, and usually no call is a good thing, so you know I was freaking out.”
“I hate that.” Priscilla sits up too.
“Exactly. Anyway, I ended up on the other side of the freestanding partition near the back door—sidenote, Clive told me today that someone had been in the back storage area rifling through paintings.”
“Creepy.”
“Nothing was taken, thankfully,” I say. “But anyway, I was listening to the message, and—”
“Wait. A medical voicemail on a Saturday night?” Priscilla’s face contorts.
“That was my thought.” I suck in a deep breath. “Hello, maternal great-grandmother, breast cancer. Paternal grandmother, cervical cancer. Freaked me the hell out because what is it that couldn’t wait until Monday, right?”
“Well, what was the message?”
“That the results for my annual are ready, but I need to call the next business day.” I blink repeatedly. “I called this morning, left a message. But, like, why didn’t the nurse just call today if the news can wait?”
“Right.” Priscilla nods. “Right…”
“Naturally, listening to that message, I was freaking out, thinking they're going to tell me that my vagina’s falling out…” A hollow laugh spills out of me. “Then I look up, and there’s Warner Easton, staring.”
Priscilla’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“Like, full-on looky-loo, gawking. I thought his eyes were about to fall out of his gorgeous head.”
“Omigod.” She shrieks excitedly. “I’m so geeked right now.”
“Girl, don’t even.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t ready to leave the entire fate of my vagine to the weekend gods. So, I walk away, but Zeek Harrison’s slimy ass steps directly into my path and corners me.”
“Ugh, I’m so mad.”