Page 1 of The Unfluencer

Prologue

Whitney

New Year’s Day

“We listen,” Chanel starts us off, laughing as we join in chorus, “And we don’t judge.”

The rest of us fall out cackling anyway.

“All I’m saying is, Laura watched him drink that wannabe ‘cool juice’ serum,” she says, standing ten toes down in her drunken “hear me out” proclamation that Steve Urkel is a better catch than Stefan Urquelle. “Shoot, give me a nerdy tech guy all day.”

I’m wheezing so hard, snapping my fingers in solidarity while fighting to catch my breath.

It’s been like this all night. Or is it morning?

I still don’t remember the exact moment midnight hit. Even before the city counted down and lit up the sky with fireworks, Priscilla had already knocked over what was left of the charcuterie platter, and Ebony was off-key, slurring and serenading Linc at the top of her lungs near the firepit before they dipped out. By the garden, Tatiana and Chanel were laughing and two-stepping through some complicated new slide dance, blatantly flirting with the hotel’s server trying to collect empty champagne flutes. And me? I’ve just been… present in the moment, I guess.

That’s our promise.

Our tradition.

No matter what else changes—our age, our addresses, our relationship status—come New Year’s Eve, the Divatantes, Ebony, Priscilla, Tatiana, Chanel, and me, turn up together before we turn over the last page of the calendar.

Good times. Great spirits. The best of friends.

In my periphery, a tiny blur drifts near me, and I reach out and catch it. As soon as I register what it is, an idea sparks in my head.

Clearing my throat, I dig deep for my bougie rich auntie voice as I say with conviction, “This year, I will find my Michael B. Jordan and write the damn romance…”

The laughter subsides.

All eyes snap to me.

Then, as if they need a sec to let what I said sink in—the Smoke-Stack crusher, romantic ghostwriter-to-bestselling-author dream I just spoke aloud to the universe—the spotlight drifts to Tatiana.

“Yesss, queen!” Chanel tugs our diva into her arms, squeezing her. “Manifest that shit, sis,” she says, standing and walking over to take the tiny paper from her, before she holds it over the glowing fire pit’s flames and winks. “And I’ll see what I can do about Michael B. Jordan for you.”

She drops it into the fire.

We watch its descent as it incinerates into sparkly golden embers and disappears.

We all let out a collective gasp.

The air in the courtyard crackles with electric joy.

Like the universe has spoken, suddenly, we’re all scrambling, on hands and—very carefully—on thirty-something knees, gathering paper scraps.

“Come on, now, ebony queen!” Priscilla beams and shouts loud enough for our girl to hear us up in her and Linc’s suite. “This year, together with Linc,” she reads aloud to us, “I will plan our beautiful, quietly sophisticated ceremony, and not let the pressure of planning a wedding stop us from enjoying each other.”

Hand to her chest, her face lights up like she personally manifested Ebony and Linc’s romantic whirlwind reunion this past summer.

“Y’all, I’m so ridiculously happy for her.” Priscilla blinks up, a little teary-eyed. But then she swipes under her eyes and sticks her tongue out, laughing. “But also, the gag is, more Tyler Lepleys for me!”

Following Chanel’s lead, she tosses Ebony’s paper into the pit.

It floats on a gusty breeze, sending sparks, glowing neon orange, into the air.

We go on like this for another twenty minutes. Huddling close, reading, excitedly snapping our fingers, and forging our wishes in flames. No more dating app trials and tribulations, meeting “the one,” finding love, and getting married. New cars, dreamy vacations, bucket list adventures.