Page 3 of The Unfluencer

“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?

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.