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Prologue

Giselle

Dear Diary,

This is already more work than Moesha made it look.

She sat on her bed, opened her diary, and always had something meaningful to say right when the music started. I’ve spent almost an hour moving one strip of washi tape around this page. The flowers looked crooked, then too straight, then crooked again once I decided straight was trying too hard. I even bought a ruler, as if straight lines could save me.

Women online make journaling look like clarity comes with the supplies. Their pages have flowers, patterned paper, perfect stickers, and penmanship that stays pretty while they work through childhood wounds. Mine has a smudge beside the date because I rested my hand on Tuesday before the ink dried. The page still looks good. I should say that because I spent enough money on it.

The journal wasn’t pricey at first, but things changed once I started adding extras to my cart. The pens only came in a set, because apparently buying just one means you’re not committed. Somehow, six rolls of tape cost less than four, which is the kind of logic I’d never accept from a client. Then I saw the stickers other customers bought, and by that point I was too invested to question people with great taste in stationery.

I couldn’t tell you how many journals I’ve bought. There are probably a few in drawers around here, tucked beneath things I actually needed to find. I’ve thrown away barely used notebooks because I didn’t care to keep the three pages I had written, then felt wasteful enough to put them under something in the trash.

Di gave me one that said Main Character Energy across the cover. That one might still be upstairs. I remember writing my name inside, but I also remember deciding I needed a better pen before I could start. Apparently, the pen I used to sign my divorce papers was insufficient for discussing my feelings.

I did write during the divorce. More than I wanted to reread afterward. I’d open that particular journal meaning to add something and end up back in an argument Byron had probably forgotten by the time I finished recording it. Eventually, I stopped opening it. I’m not sure whether I put it away or got rid of it during one of those afternoons when everything in the house seemed to need sorting.

Still, I like choosing a new one. I like finding a cover I want to pick up and opening it without having to pass anything I wrote six months ago. Usually, I can picture myself keeping up with it right through checkout.

Whenever life stays calm too long, I start waiting for the bill. Maybe a payment didn’t go through or there’s a strange noise in the car. Sometimes the quiet means Rae made a decision and plans to tell me once it’s too late to do anything. That instinct helped me keep the lights on, raise a daughter while I was still learning how to be an adult, and read a room before the truth embarrassed me.

Nothing terrible had happened. Work was steady. I was sleeping. Then somebody would ask what I’d been doing lately, and I’d tell them about work or something Rae had going on. I started noticing how quickly I ran out of things to say about myself.

That was what I meant to write about tonight, before I spent an hour arranging flowers around the date. I called it further healing when I ordered the notebook. I planned to write every night and decorate on Sundays, which already sounds like I’ve found a way to give myself homework.

I’ve made progress. I can be in a room with Byron and Sutton, speak when spoken to, and enjoy the people I came to see. What wears on me is being expected to make it comfortable for everybody else, as though the way our marriage ended is only unfortunate if I let it show. They get another celebration. I get complimented on how well I’m handling things.

I’d like to handle something else for a while. My own life, for instance. I enjoy my company. I take myself to dinner, buy the sheets I want, sleep across the middle of the bed, and say no more easily than I used to. I still explain the no long after the person has accepted it, but I’m getting better. Most evenings, I’m perfectly content. I just want more to tell somebody when they ask what I’ve been doing. I’m not sure when that became the finish line, or why dating keeps getting nominated as the only other event.

Dating is everybody’s suggestion. Dating sounds like getting dressed for a stranger, repeating the same facts, and pretending not to notice when he asks what went wrong in my marriage before the appetizers arrive. Maybe there’s a man who could make the effort feel different. I just haven’t felt like finding out badly enough to download anything.

I do, however, have somewhere to wear a nicer than usual outfit this weekend. Unfortunately, Byron will be there. It’s Zion’s birthday party, so his presence comes as no surprise. I’m also aware that Sutton will be beside him and somebody will ask about their next celebration while I’m standing there like she didn’t make a play to steal the last name off my marriage certificate before I even knew divorce was on the table. Byron and Sutton have been celebrating their wedding for almost a year. Every time I think everyone has finished congratulating them, another invitation arrives.

The outfit is hanging outside my closet. I bought it because I liked myself in it, then spent three days considering whether I should return it… especially the shorts. They’re cute, offer the most luxurious fabric I’ve ever owned, and ride high in the waist but even higher up the thigh. The objections in my head only started once I pictured everybody else in the room.

Then I pictured Byron looking twice, and I let myself enjoy that, too. I don’t want him back. I would, however, like one moment when he has to remember that somebody else could eventually want what he was so comfortable leaving. There’s probably a healthier answer, but it wouldn’t be honest, and I already paid for the journal so I have no other choice than to keep it real.

Speaking of keeping it real… the sticker at the bottom of the page is peeling again. I’ve pressed it down twice reminding me that my mind is officially drifting and I’m losing focus per usual for this sort of thing. Moesha would have wrapped up her entry with a lesson by now. She also had a soundtrack and a team of writers to make sure everybody understood the life lesson at play.

I guess I owe myself at least that much, so here goes. I’m wearing the outfit on Saturday. We can talk about everything else later.

Giselle

Chapter 1

Giselle

Zion looks at my outfit, looks at the cupcakes, then looks back at my outfit as though one of us has come to the wrong party.

“GiGi, where are you going after this?”

“Home.” I lower the tray onto the table before he can decide to help. He has a basketball under one arm and blue frosting on his thumb. Neither belongs anywhere near this blouse.

“In that?”

The child is wearing his own face on his chest. Beneath the words Zion’s 12th Draft Day, he is suspended in a layup he insisted was a dunk. I paid for the shirts. I know what the original photograph looks like.