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And she wasn’t the only one.
Althea was pacing the length of the cabin, ranting and raving about wanting a full refund from LuxuryJet Airlines. A security guard had his face buried in a sick bag and Char’s skin was so pale, Demi feared her friend was going to pass out. The only one who didn’t seem to mind the delay was Roderick. He had one hand on Geneviève’s thigh and the other on his iPad, but every few minutes he glanced up from the device to check in with her. His devotion to Geneviève was touching, admirable even, and deep down Demi was envious of their close relationship. But for every Roderick Drake, there were a million jerks who broke hearts for sport. Demi didn’t trust her own judgment anymore, and would rather have a successful career than find true love.
Why do you have to choose? whispered her inner voice. Why can’t you have both?
It was a good question but Demi didn’t want to waste time considering the answer, especially in light of what had happened with Chase in Ibiza. They’d connected in a real, profound way, had talked and laughed for hours, but he’d still left her and that rejection stung. Made her wonder what she’d done wrong, made her think she’d scared him off, but how? He’d been the aggressor, the one who’d asked to have brunch the next day, so why had he blown her off? Why had he sneaked out of her suite while she was in the shower?
Demi watched Char try to stand then drop back into her seat. Thinking fast, she grabbed a can of ginger ale off the steward’s drink cart, opened it and pushed it into the musician’s hands. Her full name was Charlotte Emerson, but everyone called her Char, and the cute nickname fit her bright, spunky personality. “Drink this, because if you throw up on this jet my mom’s going to beat you with her Birkin bag and I won’t be able to save you.”
Char cracked a smile. “Some friend you are.”
To cheer her up, Demi lobbed an arm around her shoulder, tossed her head back and sang an off-key rendition of Geneviève’s chart-topping song, “Salty Girl.” It worked. Char joined in, snapping her fingers and tapping her feet.
“Knock it off,” Althea snapped. “You’re giving me a headache.”
Demi smirked. “It’s not our fault her head hurts. Her wig’s probably too tight!”
“I heard that,” Althea said in a stern voice. “Don’t make me come over there.”
In a playful mood, Demi jumped to her feet, grabbed her mom’s hands and spun her around the cabin. Althea told her to knock it off, but sashayed and shimmed up the aisle as Demi sang. “Be nice, Mom, or I’ll write a blog about you entitled ‘How I Survived Althea Harris’ and the whole world will know how grumpy you are.”
Everyone laughed, including Althea. Demi gave her mom a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d joked around with Althea, and hop
ed her mom’s good mood lasted longer than a McDonald’s commercial. “I love you, Mom.”
Althea cupped Demi’s chin in her hand. “I love you, too, sweetie, but the next time you make fun of my stylish Patti Labelle wig, I’m going to slap the taste out of your mouth.”
“Duly noted,” Demi said, slowly backing away from her mom.
Thirsty, Demi returned to her seat at the rear of the cabin, grabbed her bottle of water from the cup holder and took a sip. Glancing around the airplane, she noticed everyone looked less tense and the mood was lighter. Geneviève was staring at her in awe, as if she’d singlehandedly pried open the frozen airplane door, but Demi didn’t know why. Her sister mouthed the words Thank you and she returned her smile. Althea was still dancing around the cabin, executing the latest dance moves, and the members of Divalicious were cheering her on.
“Look!” Esmerelda shouted, taking the seat beside Demi. “Our video is trending.”
“Of course it is,” Demi joked. “We’re fabulous and everyone knows it!”
“You can say that again. It’s been viewed and re-posted over a million times.” Moving closer, Esmerelda stuck her iPhone in Demi’s face and tapped the screen. “Everyone’s going crazy, trying to figure out who your one-night stand is, and people all around the world are posting pictures of men named Chase. Shoot, I want this dark-chocolate hottie from New Zealand to be my second husband.”
Demi burst out laughing as she watched Esmerelda dance around in her seat. She should have known the video would go viral, but she’d never expected a post about her one-night-stand in Ibiza to cause a social media frenzy. “Girl, you’re hilarious. You’ve only been married for eight months, but you’re already ready for an upgrade. Poor Jamal.”
Esmerelda sucked her teeth. “Poor Jamal, my ass. If he was handling his business in the bedroom, I wouldn’t need to look elsewhere.”
Demi raised an eyebrow. Her friends often provided great inspiration for her blog posts, and Demi wanted to hear more. She leaned forward in her seat but before she could question Esmerelda about her marital woes, Char ambled up the aisle asking Demi about her plans for the week. “I won’t be back in Philly until the end of March, but if you come to the Hamptons next Friday, we can have a girl’s night out.”
“As if!” Char made a face that could scare a pit bull. “I’d much rather party in Philly.”
Demi sighed. Moving to the Hamptons was the smartest thing she’d ever done, and she only wished she’d relocated sooner. From the moment she’d arrived in the city, her career had taken off. She’d met countless celebrities, socialites and trophy wives who loved her lifestyle blog; these days Demi had so many social engagements, she needed two wall calendars to keep up with her busy schedule. “The Hamptons is my home now, and I’m there to stay.”
“Why? Your neighbors are rude and they don’t like anyone who’s different.”
Demi frowned. “Char, you’re white.”
“I know, but Shante, Esmerelda and Akari aren’t, and the last time we visited your condo, that old lady who lives next door gave us all kinds of attitude.”
“That’s because it was two o’clock in the morning and you clowns were pounding on my door like a SWAT team,” Demi argued, setting her friend straight. “Of course Mrs. Zuckerman hates you. Every time you come over you bring the noise, literally.”
“Speaking of noise,” Shante Ingram said, joining the conversation. “We should check out Hype in SoHo. Who’s with me?”
Demi dodged Shante’s gaze, pretended to study her French manicure. She was all clubbed out, tired of dealing with the crowds and obnoxious men with weak-ass pickup lines, but Shante’s common-law husband had recently moved out, and Demi knew her girlfriend didn’t want to go home to an empty house.
