Page 119 of Ella Gets the D
I shake my head. “You always wanted me and Camila together.” The question is, how much?
The woman inspecting me with a measured gaze is a far cry from the one who read me bedtime stories.
The kiss to my mother’s cheek is as swift as my departure from the conference room. I take the rest of the day off to figure out the best course of action. I need to keep Ella and the kids safe in a way that won’t fuck up her divorce or our future.
Chapter 45
Ella
If I didn’t say it before, I’ll say it now:
I hate galas.
Okay,hateis a bit harsh. I tell my kids not to hurl four-letter words and choose something less potent. Likedespisewith a strong passion, which sums up how I feel about gala season and black-tie events.
On the surface, they’re opportunities to gather in the name of a righteous cause and put an ironing board to good use. But they mostly prove that even the best surgeons couldn’t separate ego from what should be a selfless act. The ass-kicking in costumes that cost more than most people’s rent and extravagance on ‘roids in the name of charity are too much. What isn’t enough are the Easy Bake Oven samples that pass for a meal on good china.
To be fair, tonight is a regional fundraiser dinner to benefit prospective college students who wouldn’t be able to afford tuition otherwise. I’ll pull myself out of comfy pants for that. So long as the lurking cameras stay far away.
I’ve kept to myself since the day we flew back from Montreal and landed straight in a Netflix drama. Between work and themental images of a man in the bushes snapping our every move, I couldn’t chance anyone photographing me and Julian together in public.
Julian is still apologizing like he bears responsibility for the tear in what was healed heartbreak. The temptation to pull up the image online scratched at my curiosity, but I didn’t give in. Unlike Morgan, I don’t spend my days on social media, and I only have a Facebook account, one that collects more dust than likes.
Hearing him tell me he had sex with Camila after she country-hopped just hours after sleeping with my husband hurt, I’ll admit. But how could I get mad when we didn’t know each other at the time? Plus, I still have a whole husband on paper. Add in someone flexing their paparazzi kink, and there are bigger issues at hand.
Another envelope arrived yesterday, with a photo like the ones you see in the movies, before government agents conduct a raid or pin you with a murder. I’m no Will Smith, but I have one more fuck left to give before I sprint down the streets of Washington in a fluffy robe to chase my own enemy of the state.
The candid shot of Julian’s beautiful face mid-laugh may or may not be under one of my bedroom pillows, which is unrighteous behavior at its finest. Yes, it was an invasion of privacy, but the close-up of his goatee stretching to straight teeth and a side of dimples lured me. I’m still pissed someone took it, but I’m not ashamed to admit I’m not perfect, either.
The photo is one of us walking next to a small park in our neighborhood. It’s far from newsworthy, with no kissing or holding hands to set off romance rumors. Yet, here were are, tip-toeing around threats to plaster us all over a blog like they caught Beyoncé giving a performance in front of the National Gallery.
“Eat this before you pass out or cut someone.” Erica slaps a roll into my hand. “How are you doing?”
“Better now.” My next bite stalls at her you-know-good-and-well-what-I-mean glare. I brush my upper lip for crumbs. “What?”
The dinner bell rings, herding a throng of sequins and suits to decorated tables under the winking chandeliers. Erica plasters on a smile for a short, balding man who’s pushing through the forming line in a gray suit two sizes too big.
“Little bastard,” she mumbles under her breath.
“What was that?” His breath reaches us before he turns around to reveal a sheen of moisture on his forehead and a glistening, hairy wart.
Her hand soothes her throat over a chuckle. “I saida little fasterif you want to be the first one in.” The smile covering her thick lips in deep plum dissolves the moment he’s through the double doors to the banquet hall and out of earshot.
I snort. “You’re a mess!”
“Oh, please.” She pulls the midnight ponytail cascading down her back. “Professor Epstein is a halitosis monster from an era when women were seen and not heard. He thinks his students of color are the byproduct of affirmative action.” Her inhale tugs at her frustration and her gelled edges. “The college I worked at gave him tenure even though I had enough research published in academic journals to papier-mâché his office and that comb-over. So, yes, that little misogynistic bastard can kiss my whole ass.” She pauses. “I mean no disrespect to men under five-six. I’ll be the first to testify that shorter men are excellent lovers. Katt Williams didn’t tell a single lie.”
I pinch my cheeks together—because what else is there to say?—and follow her into the room with a cloud of crystals and cascading ivory fabric down the walls.
Erica is many things. Loud. Uncensored. But one thing she does not play about is her career. Smiles and quick conversations capture her peers in our procession to one of three tables reserved for economics departments. I’m proud to say Professor Epstein and his breath didn’t make the cut.
She slides into a gold Chivari chair and crosses her legs, creating a slit to match the lines of her single-shoulder asymmetrical dress. “Back to my question. How are you holding up?”
“The best someone can be after seeing their man plastered all over the blogs with his ex-fiancée, raising questions about when they’re tying the knot, while someone drops off photos that threaten my pending divorce.” I flop into the seat next to her with a sigh. “Just peachy.”
“Shit.” Erica blows out a long breath.
I tip my head back and stare at the chandelier glittering shadows across my robin’s-egg blue and ivory blouse. “Yup.” The word emphasizes the extent of my exhaustion. “I just want this all to be over.”
