So I opened a bottle of wine—but it wasn’t working. All it had done was give me a headache, the truth pressing against my temples.Black Girl Magicsat in my lap, half empty, but the magic was a lie. It hadn’t dissolved anything.
I was on the floor of Shayna’s living room, the plush carpet soft beneath me. Silent tears leaked without permission—hot and shameful, soaking into the borrowed sweatpants.
Six months. And I was still here—not on my feet, not building a new life. Not over him. Just… here. On the floor.
I could still feel him—the phantom weight of his body pinning me to the mattress in the best way. The exact timbre of his sleep-thick voice groaning, “Take what you need, princess.”
My hand reached for my phone on instinct, muscle memory firing. I was horny and sad, and I wanted to call him. What was wrong with me? I had gotten what I said I wanted. Freedom. Distance.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Shayna approaching.
“El,” she said gently but firmly. “Come on now. Give me the bottle.”
Her voice cut through the woolly haze. I looked up. She was a vision in silk pajamas, hair tied up, expression equal parts tired and done. I clutched the bottle tighter. It was warm from my hands.
“It’s three A.M.,” she said, her tone a blend of exhaustion and fed-up. “Trey has work at seven, and your weeping is gonna seep through the ceiling.”
“He can’t hear me,” I mumbled, my words slurring. “I’m being quiet.”
“Your sadness is loud, baby. It’s vibrating the damn stemware. Now hand it over.”
My fingers loosened. She took the bottle and set it far away on the coffee table. The loss left my hands empty. Useless.
“It’s been almost six months, Elara,” I heard myself say. “And I still wake up thinking about him. I still reach for my phone to send him some stupid thing I saw. I smell his cologne on men in the street and my knees go weak.” A sob hitched out of me—ugly, helpless. “What’s wrong with me? I should’ve stayed.”
Shayna’s face softened, frustration melting into something gentler. Something that saw me. I didn’t give her a chance to respond.
“I miss him,” I whispered. The words sliced the air open. “I miss him so much it feels like a physical organ is missing. And I hate that I miss him.”
“Of course you miss him,” she said. Her hand pressed cool against my forehead. “But you told me why you left. You were a ghost in that life, Elara. A beautiful, competent, perfectlypreserved ghost. You were supposed to leave to get better. But now?” She gestured at me. “Now you’re a mess on my floor.”
I let my head fall back, staring at the stippled ceiling.
“I don’t know how to be a person anymore,” I admitted. “I only know how to be an asset. A wife. A savior. A secret. Not even a real adult woman because the only thing I’ve ever chosen for myself is leaving.”
“Then learn how to be a person,” she said, no-nonsense. “Starting tomorrow. No more of this.” She pointed at the exiled bottle. “This pity party has a hard curfew. You’re gonna get up. You’re gonna shower. You’re gonna figure out what Elara Vance wants for breakfast—something that has nothing to do with what anyone else needs.”
What Elara Vance wants.The concept was foreign. Terrifying.
“What if I don’t want anything?” I whispered.
“Then you sit in the wanting-nothing until you want something. But you do it sober.” She stood and extended her hand. Small but strong. “Now get up. Before I call your white boy and tell him to come collect his soggy heart. And I will, because you’re getting on my nerves a little bit.”
A weak, wet laugh bubbled out of me. It hurt my throat. I took her hand and let her pull me up. The world swayed. She guided me to the sofa. I’d been here six months and her guest bedroom was still a closet. She wasn’t going to let me hide forever.
I settled onto the sofa, and she tucked the comforter around me like I was five. As she turned to leave, she paused in the doorway.
“Almost six months, El,” she said softly. “You’re allowed a breakdown. You’re not allowed to stay broken.”
Then she walked upstairs and left me alone with the dark.
Chapter 42
Elara
The next morning, waking up felt like a punishment. Light stabbed at my eyes, and my mouth tasted like regret and cheap grapes.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty…”
