Page 50 of The Unfluencer

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.