Page 10 of The Unfluencer

A small, slow squeak spills out of me. I only vaguely register the faint sound of my weakness because my focus is on openly staring at him. At this man who, despite my every effort to dodge him, the universe has apparently scheduled a follow-up run-in with.

This man who, a year ago, checked every box.

This man I painted in detailed strokes.

Warner Easton.

Who, it turns out, is everything I don’t want in a man—because he’s like my father, who gets going when things turn serious. Even worse, he’s just like the only person who ever made me feel expendable.

My grandmother.

Chapter Two

Warner

Beau Monde

I’ve got a great poker face.

Not everyone does. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when I’m protecting my cards—in boardrooms, choosing new investments, launching new structural surveying apps, and, more and more these days, when I’m forced to publicly face “polite society: the ones supposedly committed to elevating Black excellence in this thriving metropolis of Ellswood.

Yeah, okay.

Judgment fills their eyes now as they hunt for even the faintest tear in the fabric of my carefully constructed armor as if they need to see, with their own eyes, that I’m grieving the “right” way. Broken enough, but not so much it makes them uncomfortable.

“That’s right. Keep staring…” I say under my breath.

On principle, I keep my head high as I scrape my fork across my plate, gathering the last bite of custardy cream and truffle bits, leaving nothing behind. As I swallow, though, frustration still tightens viselike around my chest. Every table in the country club is littered with glitterati who’ve come out in droves today for the spectacle.

If they don’t like that I’m here again, that’s a them problem.

I take a long drink from my glass, letting the water cool me from the inside out, then sit up straighter, smoothing my expression against the glares. But I’m determined to see this brunch through.

Not for them, for me.

For what might’ve been fourteen years of marriage.

For my sanity.

For my goddamn right to sit here and eat golden-yellow scrambled eggs flecked with truffle shavings, crisp chives, and crème fraiche. Eggs I’ve denied myself for over a year.

That’s why, dammit.

“Is everything to your liking, Mr. Easton?” asks one of the servers, a tall and sheepish-looking guy with thin, rectangular glasses and a part that’s doing its best to bisect his egg-shaped head.

I catch the somber lilt to his tone as he refills my water, and I meet his teary-eyed stare.

He, along with half the staff, have been over to my table, kindly, quietly—as I asked—giving their sympathies and condolences. But this guy, who still hasn’t even told me his name, his poker face is nonexistent. With that quivering bottom lip and shaky hand? The way his brows are gathered together? He might not make it through the shift without a good cry.

I give it fifteen minutes, tops. The dam breaks.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, clearing my throat to mask my laugh. “Everything is delicious. Please send my compliments to Chef Hibbert.”

Dutifully, he nods.

But then his attention flits to Sherry’s untouched plate again, and he sniffles.

Lord help him.