Page 51 of The Unfluencer

For all of two seconds, their concerned eyes snap to mine as they visibly struggle to connect my dots between medical whammies and love.

Then they crack. Falling out in cackles on my bed.

“What about this is funny?” This is a legitimate concern. “I might’ve been born without the love gene.”

Chanel is crying laughing. “The love gene?”

“Now you’re worried about relationships and romance?” Tatiana smacks her lips, falling into a fit of giggles.

Ebony at least tries to mask her laugh as she gathers me into a hug. “Oh, sis. We’ve got to reel this all the way back.” Her entire body vibrates against mine before she pulls back to look at me. “This isn’t Monopoly. Abnormal lab results don’t automatically mean you do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. All it means, for certain, is that they need a different course of action.”

My heart sinks. “To save my life?” I ask.

Tatiana, who always comes fully prepared for mopes, pulls tiny diagonal-cut sandwiches and five wineglasses from her tote, then uncorks and pours chilled rosé, turning to Priscilla. “So, this is what we missed?”

“Whit’s up for Best Actress in a Certifiable Drama.” Priscilla’s lips twitch. “Obviously, she’s about to die without ever experiencing loooove.”

Chanel rolls her eyes. “Nothing like a negative pap to put a wasted love life into perspective.”

“This is serious,” I whine. “Even when I was with, um, the firefighter, I never felt like I knew how to love him. I don’t even know if I’m capable of learning.”

“And now, what if it’s over, and you didn’t even try?” Priscilla finishes for me, fully enjoying this. “Define capable, Whit.”

“What do you mean?” I ask around a cheek full of sandwiched spinach and feta.

The faintest twinkle glimmers in her eyes, and I feel the tables turning.

“You said capable of learning. I’m assuming you’re referring to Gertrude and your father—I’m just asking why.” From the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie, she pulls out a tube of lip balm, gliding it on slow, eye contact unwavering. “And no, you can’t pass. Your heart deserves a minimum three reasons.”

Is this woman really using my own tactics against me?

“Ugh, what do you want me to say here? I haven’t had great examples of love or whatever. I’ve been in relationships, I go on dates, have mediocre sex with mediocre men, and go about my business.”

“Would we say relationships, plural?” Tatiana instigates. “In the past five years, you’ve only been dating for uncomplicated sex.”

“And the firefighter—because you refuse to name your pets—basically lived at the firehouse, so you didn’t have to see him often,” Chanel cosigns. “Every other dude since wasn’t adventurous, flaunted his wealth—or my personal favorite, the fitness trainer who was ‘too flashy’ online when his oil-slicked abs were the reason you met in your gallery DMs in the first place.”

I gasp.

“Lord, next thing you know, you’ll be telling us you haven’t met anyone up to your standards, when really”—Priscilla tilts her head—“Warner Easton had your knees all weak. He’s perfect—and yes, I said perfect—for you. You’re just scared of falling for a man with a few coins in his pocket, who’ll use his wealth to manipulate and control you like your grandmother, so you keep men at a distance.”

We all gasp this time.

“That’s not fair,” I mutter.

“The truth never is.” Priscilla sighs. “You’re alive, you’ve got fabulous friends, a thriving, award-nominated art gallery, and lab results that’ll probably require nothing more than a cryo, a diagnostic mammogram, and an ultrasound because lots of Black women have dense boobs.” She clears her throat. “So, when that rich, handsome, eligible bachelor calls, you’ll get your shot to have fun learning if you’re capable of love. Take it.”

“Damn,” the four of us say in unison.

At this point, my lungs must be empty. What is happening?

“And don’t think we didn’t read your comment about Warner on that vlog,” Chanel piles on. “Talking about he controls people with his money, like he doesn’t employ an entire workforce. Out here actively resisting any man with more than two dimes and a lick of influence.” She laughs. “Chile, you don’t have to worry about being an influencer. You’re a certified unfluencer.”

Priscilla nods. “Resisting and undermining influence to the fullest extent of her law.”

“Whitney, you are not in danger, girl.” Tatiana giggles.

My phone vibrates on my nightstand and I reach for it, but Chanel swipes it away, silencing the room as she answers, “House of Beauty, this is Cutie, how may I help you… Oh, hey, Clive.”