Page 5 of The Unfluencer

A laugh sputters out of me.

“Um, hello? Are y’all hearing yourselves? Husband.” I frown, utterly confused about when we stopped respecting the sanctity of marriage. “Thank you, next.”

“I don’t know, Whit.” Priscilla dips her chin, holding my gaze. “The streets have been talking. Might be trouble in paradise⁠—”

“Ugh, hard nope!” I shrug. “So, he’s also in need of therapy and healing, and possibly sexually confused.”

Chanel plops back against the cushions.

“Maybe not for long…”

My entire face screws up at the thought of ambulance-chasing this man’s wreckage of a marriage.

Just… no.

“No, she’s right, we don’t need any situationships,” Tatiana reasons. “But at least we know your type now, Whit. A little Aldis Hodge with a cup of Damson Idris, throw in that fine-ass baseball player from Chicago with the thick thighs. Yesss, toss in a few money bags and a high-powered career…”

I burst out laughing. “Thank you, please stop now.”

Priscilla’s expression softens. “No pressure—we won’t do anything you don’t want us to,” she says, as if she didn’t single-handedly spearhead the movement to turn this flaming paper-strip manifesto activity into a game of truth-or-date.

“Great.” I flash a huge smile. “So, we agree. Let’s just… leave it alone.”

Shocker to absolutely no one, my good sis Chanel can’t ever just leave well enough alone for five seconds.

“But, like, I think we’re just wondering, why hasn’t love ever been a priority?” she asks softly, carefully. Nosily. “Is it because of your grandmother’s rules? Or your dad?”

Ah yes, so many great options. The woman who taught me that love is conditional, by making hers contingent on following her premarital life plan for me. Or the married man who got my mom pregnant, ditched responsibility, and left. Can’t imagine why I’m not auditioning to be bedded and booted.

I’m just not about to hinge my happiness on some random guy. Gertrude might’ve had a point with her rules. Me first, then love. If it’s even the cards, I’ll be set either way.

My lips part, and I’m just⁠—

The three of them share a loaded glance, clearly forgetting that I speak nonverbal eye contact, and again, just… no.

While they’re concocting the logistics of their full-court press, I slip out my phone, open a browser, and prepare to build a palatable countersuit as I quickly tap out, Fine Black Men Ellswood, GA, and honeyyyy… the way the results are resulting.

Oh yes.

On the same internet that our First Lady Michelle uses, my screen populates with an anointed representation of glorious Black excellence of the male variety that might persuade me to go put in a rush order on my future boo.

I tap on the first picture of a six-foot-infinity, granite-skinned Black man draped in muscles on a basketball court and flip the screen to them.

“Exhibit A,” I announce, prompting them to look at me.

Their expressions do not disappoint.

I swear Tatiana moans. “Good Lordt. Who is that?”

“One of Ellswood’s finest,” I say, pride oozing from my pores as I swipe to another superior biological specimen of stacked chocolate snack, this one, at a gala, giving model behavior in next season’s tailored threads.

My divas are drooling.

And yes, that includes Priscilla “merry-go-round” Hamilton.

“Jesus, how long is this video?” she asks, letting her teeth slowly sink into her bottom lip when I tell her it’s a still image, and her eyes have not, in fact, deceived her.

Because I’m nothing if not thorough, I continue swiping through corporate gatherings, galas, last year’s Founders & Benefactors Legacy Ball highlights, giving them an eye-candy sugar rush.