Page 247 of The Wright Man

Hard.

"That's for making me watch The Expendables THREE TIMES," I yelled as the piñata's head cracked slightly.

Another swing. "That's for cheating on me with a bitch who wears synthetic hair!"

The girls screamed in laughter.

Swing. "That's for not being able to find the clit for the first two fucking years!"

Bella damn near collapsed.

Tina was filming on her phone, narrating like it was the World Series. "And Angelica winds up for another—OH! Direct hit to the chin! Gavin would be speechless if he wasn't already useless!"

I was breathless by the time the piñata burst open, showering the parking lot with mini Patron bottles, flavored lube packets, and laminated quote cards like "Unclench your jaw, unbend your standards" and "He's not your soulmate—he's a flesh-colored disappointment."

It was a mess. It was healing. It was perfect.

I tossed the bat on the grass while the others scavenged the spoils like drunk pirates. Bella tucked a gloss behind her ear. Ms. Reesie found a pack of Trojan Magnums and yelled, "A gift for my future third husband, whoever he may be!"

And with that, we piled back into the van and headed to brunch.

The rooftop spot Tina booked was bougie as hell—glass railings, orange umbrellas, bottomless mimosas, and a live DJ spinning '00s R&B. There was a private area roped off just for us, and we immediately made ourselves at home like we owned the place.

By the second mimosa, Ms. Reesie was standing up trying to twerk on beat to Juvenile, her knees surprisingly strong. Bella was coaching her between sips. Kia had ordered a doggy bag "for her son," but I knew damn well it was for herself and she had zero intention of cooking tonight. Alicia kept trying to sneak silverware into her purse, and I pretended not to see.

Me? I was drunk.

Drunk on waffles and chicken and mimosas and lightness. Full of sisterhood and oxygen and life.

Tina grabbed my hand and yanked me on top of the table when the DJ played "Act Up." I let her. Fuck it. I'd earned my moment. I dropped it low with no rhythm but a lot of heart.

"Let the spirit move through that coochie chakra!" Tina screamed.

"That's not a thing!" Bella hollered back, nearly choking on her drink.

We were loud. We were unbothered. We were alive.

After dessert—which was mostly mimosas—we closed out with one final challenge: a dramatic reading of the worst texts I'd ever sent the group chat about Gavin.

The girls took turns, standing like Shakespearean actors and reading texts with full theatrical energy. Alicia had props. Kia used accents. Ms. Reesie delivered hers like a gospel preacher.

But Bella?

Bella won.

She stood, cleared her throat, and read, in a surprisingly good British accent: "Y'all. This man had the nerve to ask me to quit my job—AFTER nutting in 2.5 minutes—then pouted when I laughed. I am in hell. Send weed and prayers."

The whole table screamed.

"Tony-worthy," Alicia clapped. "Oscar-worthy, even."

Bella bowed dramatically.

And as I looked around—at my girls, my chaos crew, my village—I felt something deep and warm and true settle in my chest.

This was my new normal.

Not perfection, but joy, peace.