Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Whitney
Inheritance
Suddenly, light floods the room. The world refocuses, coming in loud and in blinding Technicolor. And all I can think is, Keep your eyes closed, Whit. Whatever you do, don’t be that woman who stupidly looks into the light.
“Whit?”
It’s Priscilla’s faraway voice.
Logically, I was on the phone with her, and she does have an emergency key to my house.
I should just open my eyes and realize my five minutes to be dramatic are over.
But there’s this part of me that knows those terrifying scenes just before the end, when the person has just been in a horrible accident or encounters a shifty character in a dark alley.
They blink, and suddenly it’s all warm light and thrown voices guiding them into the afterlife.
“Oh my gosh. Open your eyes.” She groans.
Shaking my head, I squeeze them tighter, instinctively, checking that my boobs are still there. Thankfully, they still are.
Priscilla pokes me, and I stupidly comply.
Except, as I squint against the brightness, it’s not just her. I’m surrounded by my divas, looking ethereal, drenched in light—and, judging by their deadpan expressions, annoyed that they’re here.
“Are you real? Is this the afterlife?” I ask.
A collective whoosh of a sigh echoes around the room.
“Told y’all it was bad,” Priscilla says, prompting me to look at her, and she’s… bright-eyed, skin glowing, curls twisted up in a messy bun, dressed in a super-cute, comfy-looking blue “Strong Female Protagonist” sweatshirt, and…
Wait, that’s my sweatshirt!
“I get it,” she says, all traces of her Trent meltdown from our earlier conversation somehow vanished.
Apparently, her heart’s all sewn up, and now she’s the chosen one on consolation duty. As the divas climb onto the bed, settling on all sides of me, she leans in, expression completely sincere as she takes my hand in hers.
“You’ve still got the baton,” she says.
My attention flickers to the TV remote I’m still clutching.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, or when Priscilla disconnected the call—and had her flash glow-up—but they’re really here.
Warmth seeps into my chest. Then immediately chills trickle down my spine.
“Two abnormal tests.”
It’s all I say, and they should automatically understand.
They’ve all had their breasts flattened to pancakes and sat with their knees hanging open in the name of self-care.
And not even the good, orgasmic kind. This is so much more than unsettling medical news.
It’s like a bad omen, or a fork in the road of life, and I’ve got to stop and decide how to proceed. If I live.
Heat singes the corners of my eyes. “I could be dying—”
“You’re not dying!” they snap at me.
I swallow hard. “Look at what happened to Sherry Easton. That’s how fast it happens. I’m about to be the same age she was when she passed.”
“Girl, all this over some routine lab results?” Ebony softens, smoothing my hair out of my face. “They’re probably nothing.”
Tatiana and Chanel hum their agreement.
Suddenly, like some warped gynecological edition of Intervention Trauma Olympics, the four of them casually dive into stories about their last abnormal paps and routine cryos.
Cryos!
We’re just on a nickname basis with cryoablations now.
No big deal. I’ll be awake with my feet in stirrups while my cervix is frozen with liquid nitrogen to treat a bunch of squatting irregular cells.
Then, boom! Done. I’ll just be sore and crampy for a few hours and have to cut out sex for a couple weeks, but all in all, I’m back in business.
Ta!
But what they don’t get is this isn’t just about a “closed for construction” sign on my vagina. Or even my perfect, perky C-cup boobs being professionally fondled. This is a double whammy, abnormal pap smear and mammogram, we’re talking about. Both sides of my bloodline, cervical and breast cancer.
Don’t they get that my body is shooting off emergency flares?
And again, I think it bears mentioning, still no Whitney Graves monuments. No World Art Award or National Medal of Arts. The Ascension is only a nomination, so who even knows what’ll happen? I’ve got my ArteryBeat kids, but no real adventures under my belt.
Panic bombs detonate in my chest, sending my head spinning. And it’s hot; I’m overheating because this is seriously a real issue.
“Guys, what if I’m incapable of real, meaningful, sweep-you-off-your-feet, his-and-hers, let’s-grow-old-together, forever-plus-one love?” I blurt out.
The room goes completely quiet.
For all of two seconds, their concerned eyes snap to mine as they visibly struggle to connect my dots between medical whammies and love.
Then they crack. Falling out in cackles on my bed.
“What about this is funny?” This is a legitimate concern. “I might’ve been born without the love gene.”
Chanel is crying laughing. “The love gene?”
“Now you’re worried about relationships and romance?” Tatiana smacks her lips, falling into a fit of giggles.
Ebony at least tries to mask her laugh as she gathers me into a hug.
“Oh, sis. We’ve got to reel this all the way back.
” Her entire body vibrates against mine before she pulls back to look at me.
“This isn’t Monopoly. Abnormal lab results don’t automatically mean you do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
All it means, for certain, is that they need a different course of action. ”
My heart sinks. “To save my life?” I ask.
Tatiana, who always comes fully prepared for mopes, pulls tiny diagonal-cut sandwiches and five wineglasses from her tote, then uncorks and pours chilled rosé, turning to Priscilla. “So, this is what we missed?”
“Whit’s up for Best Actress in a Certifiable Drama.” Priscilla’s lips twitch. “Obviously, she’s about to die without ever experiencing loooove.”
Chanel rolls her eyes. “Nothing like a negative pap to put a wasted love life into perspective.”
“This is serious,” I whine. “Even when I was with, um, the firefighter, I never felt like I knew how to love him. I don’t even know if I’m capable of learning.”
“And now, what if it’s over, and you didn’t even try?” Priscilla finishes for me, fully enjoying this. “Define capable, Whit.”
“What do you mean?” I ask around a cheek full of sandwiched spinach and feta.
The faintest twinkle glimmers in her eyes, and I feel the tables turning.
“You said capable of learning. I’m assuming you’re referring to Gertrude and your father—I’m just asking why.” From the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie, she pulls out a tube of lip balm, gliding it on slow, eye contact unwavering. “And no, you can’t pass. Your heart deserves a minimum three reasons.”
Is this woman really using my own tactics against me?
“Ugh, what do you want me to say here? I haven’t had great examples of love or whatever. I’ve been in relationships, I go on dates, have mediocre sex with mediocre men, and go about my business.”
“Would we say relationships, plural?” Tatiana instigates. “In the past five years, you’ve only been dating for uncomplicated sex.”
“And the firefighter—because you refuse to name your pets—basically lived at the firehouse, so you didn’t have to see him often,” Chanel cosigns.
“Every other dude since wasn’t adventurous, flaunted his wealth—or my personal favorite, the fitness trainer who was ‘too flashy’ online when his oil-slicked abs were the reason you met in your gallery DMs in the first place. ”
I gasp.
“Lord, next thing you know, you’ll be telling us you haven’t met anyone up to your standards, when really”—Priscilla tilts her head—“Warner Easton had your knees all weak. He’s perfect—and yes, I said perfect—for you.
You’re just scared of falling for a man with a few coins in his pocket, who’ll use his wealth to manipulate and control you like your grandmother, so you keep men at a distance. ”
We all gasp this time.
“That’s not fair,” I mutter.
“The truth never is.” Priscilla sighs. “You’re alive, you’ve got fabulous friends, a thriving, award-nominated art gallery, and lab results that’ll probably require nothing more than a cryo, a diagnostic mammogram, and an ultrasound because lots of Black women have dense boobs.
” She clears her throat. “So, when that rich, handsome, eligible bachelor calls, you’ll get your shot to have fun learning if you’re capable of love. Take it.”
“Damn,” the four of us say in unison.
At this point, my lungs must be empty. What is happening?
“And don’t think we didn’t read your comment about Warner on that vlog,” Chanel piles on.
“Talking about he controls people with his money, like he doesn’t employ an entire workforce.
Out here actively resisting any man with more than two dimes and a lick of influence.
” She laughs. “Chile, you don’t have to worry about being an influencer. You’re a certified unfluencer.”
Priscilla nods. “Resisting and undermining influence to the fullest extent of her law.”
“Whitney, you are not in danger, girl.” Tatiana giggles.
My phone vibrates on my nightstand and I reach for it, but Chanel swipes it away, silencing the room as she answers, “House of Beauty, this is Cutie, how may I help you… Oh, hey, Clive.”
A collective sigh of relief washes over us. It’s just Clive. Not Warner.
What’s happening? I mouth to Chanel, who ignores me.
For a few seconds all we hear are a few “uh-huhs” and “mm-hmms,” before her eyes snap to mine, saucer wide.
Girrrrl, she mouths, hand to heart.
And now we’re all tuned in, pestering Chanel to turn up the volume on the scoop. So when she disconnects the call with a howl of a laugh, we’re on pins and needles.
“Apparently…” she starts, “your Warney Poo called the Artery. He wants to meet in person this Thursday to discuss all the details and whatnot about Sherry’s paintings before he takes you to view the collection the following weekend.”
“But he’s supposed to meet with the Heartery on Thursday…”