Page 45 of The Unfluencer

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.