Dedication

For everyone on their respective journeys—

remember to choose the paths less chosen, cackle

just as much as (if not more than) you cry, have

unwavering courage to embrace the unknown,

and extend grace and forgiveness to others as well

as yourself. We’re all just trying to figure it out.

—Christine

For Nanny, who always had a jar full of cookies,

prayed at her front door whenever an ambulance

passed, and rooted for each Wheel of Fortune player

to win a little bit of money. —Catherine

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

One: De’Andrea

Two: Rebecca

Three: De’Andrea

Four: Rebecca

Five: De’Andrea

Six: Rebecca

Seven: De’Andrea

Eight: Rebecca

Nine: De’Andrea

Ten: Rebecca

Eleven: De’Andrea

Twelve: Rebecca

Thirteen: De’Andrea

Fourteen: Rebecca

Fifteen: De’Andrea

Sixteen: Rebecca

Seventeen: De’Andrea

Eighteen: Rebecca

Nineteen: De’Andrea

Twenty: Rebecca

Twenty-One: De’Andrea

Twenty-Two: Rebecca

Twenty-Three: De’Andrea

Twenty-Four: Rebecca

Twenty-Five: De’Andrea

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

De’Andrea

Even though De’Andrea Whitman was woefully behind schedule, she continued rearranging the fragrant long-stemmed lilies she’d purchased for the first summer soiree she didn’t want to host. From the black linen place cards resting on elegant mini easels to the gold-rimmed china, everything De’Andrea envisioned for her and Malik’s Farewell, Friends gathering was perfect. Well, everything was perfect except having to say farewell. She still couldn’t believe they were leaving Atlanta in three weeks.

How was that all the time they had left?

Only three more weeks in the Black oasis of Buckhead before they moved to the whiter-than-white suburb of Rolling Hills? Before Malik had to transfer to his consulting firm’s Northern Virginia office where he’d be the only Black executive? And to accept that their five-year-old daughter, Nina, wouldn’t be a kindergartner at a Montessori school of Black excellence? Now their sweet girl had to attend Magnolia Country Day School—some not-as-progressive-as-it-thought-it-was private school that paled in comparison, literally and figuratively. And what kind of name for a town was Rolling Hills? Like, hills don’t even roll!

Only three more weeks of being Black and bougie with my besties! De’Andrea wailed. Then I’ll be living among the whites, and be stuck dealing with Karens and Beckys and all their caucacity!

Inhale.

She fanned her face with her hands to keep her tears at bay.

Exhale.

Waitaminute. De’Andrea squinted at two of the six place settings.

How was the spacing between Toni and Craig still off? And maybe the two married couples should sit across from each other instead of next to each other. Hadn’t she read somewhere that any hostess who knew how to do the mostest made it easy for partners to make eye contact?

Inhale. Exhale.

Dear God! She sighed. Let me just put things back the way I had them before.

Determined this would be her last switcheroo, De’Andrea tightened the belt around her tan cashmere robe and quickly descended the steps into the sunken dining room. As soon as her Gucci shearling-lined slippers hit the hardwood floors, she made a beeline for the nearest place setting.

Damn, Dee!

Her reflection in the large picture window overlooking the garden was unforgiving, and she frowned at her chunky, unparted braids before giving them a few reassuring pats with her palm.

"Just make these changes, then you can go get ready and stop looking like Celie in The Color Purple," she encouraged herself.

While switching Toni’s name card to the mini easel across from Craig’s for the umpteenth time, De’Andrea noticed something floating in the water of the floral centerpiece.

Don’t do it! No one is going to even see that little leaf. You’re being ridiculous.

What’s the point anyway? she asked herself as she began removing lilies from the vase. It wasn’t like there was some magical configuration that would make tonight’s dinner feel more celebratory or change the inevitable. After she got this leaf out of the water and stopped playing musical chairs with the guest list, they’d still have to relocate to Rolling Hills.

Moving to a new city is a new chapter in my blessed life. According to her therapist, repeating the relocation mantra would help calm her nerves whenever she felt anxious. But how many times did De’Andrea have to say the words before she actually believed them?

It wasn’t that she doubted God’s plans for her life. He was omnipotent, after all. But she was starting to wonder if her guardian angel had quietly quit.

Because this was supposed to be her year!

Once Nina started kindergarten, De’Andrea had planned to do some real soul-searching. Because there had to be more to life than being Malik’s wife and Nina’s mother. Not that she regretted holding either of those titles or her decision to leave BigLaw so she’d actually have time to spend with her little family. But damn if she wasn’t ready to reclaim those precious hours between 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. to do something other than pick up Malik’s dry cleaning and mothering her daughter. She needed some time to mother herself!

That’s what she was supposed to be doing in three weeks—discovering and embracing the next chapter of her life—not moving to raggedy-ass Rolling Hills!

Who knows what she would have done or who she might have become if they weren’t leaving Atlanta? Maybe she would have returned to BigLaw. Not as a full-time attorney, of course. She already knew that billable-hours life was akin to indentured servitude. But maybe she could have worked as a part-time associate. There was also her homegirl’s offer to teach a seminar at Emory Law School. And if she discovered she loved teaching, maybe she would have gotten a tenure-track gig. Or perhaps she might have just learned to embrace life as a kept woman. It wasn’t like being a homemaker was the worst job in the world. Hell, she might have even allowed herself to be poked and prodded in the hopes of having another baby. Or as the fertility specialist would say, Another geriatric pregnancy. Sure, being forty-two was older, but it wasn’t geriatric! Geez! Did she even have any eggs left?

So much for the houseful of babies you thought you’d have one day!

De’Andrea sighed as she placed the last lily back in the floral centerpiece. Whatever she might have done or become, she’d never know. Because her life had been rocked to the core ever since her mother-in-law’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Mama Whitman’s disappearance, the excruciating wait during the Silver Alert, and everything that followed had forever changed what being close to family meant for her and Malik. Mama Whitman was the reason—the only reason—they were moving to Rolling Hills.

This is your reminder the caterers will arrive in . . . one hour, Alexa’s monotone robotic voice called out from the kitchen.

De’Andrea glanced at her Cartier Tank as if Alexa were lying.

How is it six o’clock already?

Hell, perhaps she was geriatric. Because it didn’t matter how hideous that damn silicone band was—she had to start wearing her Apple Watch again. She really needed those buzzing wrist notifications.

Shit!

‘Shittles,’ babe. Malik’s deep voice gently chastised as he walked into the dining room.

Shit! I really gotta memorize that kid-friendly swear chart. Right. Right. Shittles.

Shittles. ‘Shiitake mushrooms.’ Anything but ‘shit.’ Nina’s all ears these days, remember? He slid his arms around De’Andrea’s waist and nuzzled his face against her neck.

She turned to kiss him and smiled. With his long locs pulled into a messy man bun, Malik seemed even taller than his six-foot-four-inch frame. De’Andrea gave him a quick once-over. The subtle scent of Le Labo Santal 33. Freshly shaven salt-and-pepper goatee. Classic Burberry polo paired with crisp navy slacks and his beloved house shoes that looked like leather loafers. Very Zaddy. Very GQ.

I mean, of course you look good. Since you weren’t down here helping prep for our goodbye party. And this party was your idea!

Malik eyed the dining arrangements in sincere awe. You never cease to amaze me.

I never cease to amaze myself, either, De’Andrea said, straight-faced.

Wait a second. Malik removed his hands from around her waist.

Hmmm? She slid the mini easel with Toni’s name card on it one-fourth of an inch to the left. Then she moved it half an inch to the right. Wait a second, what?

Dee, why is the table set for six? Isn’t it just us, Toni, Craig, and Simone? He looked over De’Andrea’s shoulder and read the name card. So Toni is sitting here—

Wait! De’Andrea rushed over to the other side of the table. Now don’t go touching stuff. Let me explain.

What’s there to explain? Malik followed her calmly. Dee, who else is coming?

See, what had happened was . . . She stood in front of one of the place settings like a bodyguard.

Slightly amused, Malik stood in front of her and crossed his arms. You know I can pick you up with one hand, right? His ink-black eyes stared playfully into hers. So, are we gonna do this the hard way or nah?

Fine. De’Andrea conceded, throwing her hands in the air as she stepped aside. Fine!

He’s gon lose his shiitake mushrooms in three, two . . .

Oh, hell nawl! Malik stared at the name written in gold calligraphy in disbelief. Then he snatched the card off the easel, held it up to his face for a closer look, and repeated, Hell nawl!

Leek! De’Andrea giggled, failing miserably at trying to suppress her amusement. "You know how much Simone loves LL Cool J. He’s like family!"

"You and Simone get on my damn nerves with that damn dog!" Malik tossed the name card at De’Andrea and rolled his eyes when she caught it.

Probably not the best time to remind him to say dagnabbit instead of damn.

Shortly after De’Andrea wed Malik, her childhood bestie, Simone, had found her own life partner—a mini Jack Russell terrier. She promptly named him after her favorite rapper, LL Cool J, and none of their lives had been the same since.

Although he’d been an adorable puppy, under Simone’s doting-but-not-so-disciplined eye, LL had quickly grown into a ten-pound fur-ball of terror. And like anyone blinded by love, Simone only made excuses for his problematic behavior. Even after the last dog trainer quit, declaring that LL was not a Jack Russell but was, in fact, Satan’s spawn, Simone’s rationale was All these wack-ass trainers want to do is break LL’s spirit and then get mad when they can’t. My li’l Cool J is like a peacock. I gotta let him fly!

Malik let out a heavy sigh especially reserved for Simone and LL’s shenanigans.

"It’s not like we’re gonna have a dog at the table, De’Andrea continued to plead her case. You know Simone is going to have him in that little luxury doggy bag, and she can just place it right here on the chair. I still can’t believe she spent all that money on a Louis Vuitton carrier. Anyway, you know if he’s not right next to her, he’s gonna be doing all that howling and whimpering, and then she’s gonna be getting up to check on him every five seconds. And—"

Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? Malik asked. Seriously.

Yes. De’Andrea nodded, acquiescing. "Yes, I do hear how ridiculous I sound. But you know it’s the truth anyhow. And I’m already stressed. I don’t have the bandwidth to be dealing with all LL’s annoying doggy shiiii . . . shiitake mushroom-ish."

Cool. Then he can sit closer to you. Malik reached for LL’s name card. Let’s just switch these . . .

De’Andrea smacked his hand away. Uh-uh, I want my bestie closest to me. Not that dog.

But you want me to—

Leek! This time, she smacked his butt. "C’mon! I’ve been decorating and working on these seating arrangements for hours! You’ve got Craig on your left and LL can be to your right. All the homies can sit together."

"Whoa now, that dog is not my homie—"

This is your reminder that the caterers are arriving in . . . forty-five minutes, Alexa announced.

Oh, shiitake, Malik quipped. "Look at the time. You should really go upstairs and get ready, Dee. Don’t worry, I won’t touch anything while you’re gone."

Leek. Do not. She gave her meanest mean-mug as she backed out of the dining room. And I’m so serious.

Malik smiled as he pretended to reach for LL’s name card. See you soon!

God, I love and hate that man so much.

After a quick shower, De’Andrea slipped into a plush robe and turned on her Hot Girl Summer playlist. Dancing around her walk-in closet, she unbraided her hair while trying to decide what to wear. And before she knew it, she was fluffing her curls and popping her booty while singing I’m too classy for this world. Forever I’m that girl! She stayed waiting for a reason to live out her dream as one of Beyoncé’s backup dancers! And thankfully, her forty-two-year-old geriatric knees hadn’t failed her yet.

Normally, De’Andrea was always down to have a reason to get glammed up. But tonight felt less like a dinner party and more like a funeral.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to De’Andrea, Malik, and Nina as they prepare to move to Rolling Hills, a white suburb in no-man’s-land Virginia. A place so far from Atlanta it’s like driving across God’s back.

Ugh! Once again, she combed through the black attire in her color-coded closet.

Why did the only state-of-the-art dementia residential facility on the East Coast have to be in Rolling Hills? Why couldn’t Memory Village be someplace more reasonable? And Blacker? If it was just a little farther north in Washington, DC, they could have moved to a place with so many Black folks it was called Chocolate City.

Seemed the only chocolate in Rolling Hills was white chocolate.

And De’Andrea had never been a fan of white chocolate.

One peek in the window of the town’s only yoga studio was enough for De’Andrea to know it could never replace Atlanta’s Beats & Bends classes. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d practiced yoga with a bunch of white women. Must have been when she was a student at Ole Miss Law School trying to relieve some stress. Gosh, had it really been that long since she’d been annoyed by stick-thin Beckys’ not-so-subtle gawking in disbelief that her thick thighs and fat ass could fold into a king pigeon pose?

Namaste. Or whatever. De’Andrea rolled her eyes. "Nah, Imma stay getting my vinyasa flow on to trap music."

Rather than continue to waste time deciding on an outfit, she walked over to her vanity and pulled out her makeup bag. She wasn’t planning on doing too much, just a light beat. Motherhood had helped her establish a five-minute drab to fab routine—a dusting of powder foundation, blush, several coats of waterproof mascara, and a bold red lip.

Yassssss! You serving face, hunty!

Raising her eyebrows, she leaned in closer to the mirror to assess her handiwork. Well, she tried to raise her eyebrows. Because her forehead stayed smooth as a few laugh lines gathered at the corners of her eyes. That was Dr. German’s secret—she didn’t freeze a client’s whole face.

De’Andrea tried to raise her eyebrows again just to marvel at the fact that she couldn’t. The Botox is still Botoxing, baby!

Waitaminute. Who’s gonna do my Botox once we move to Rolling Hills?

Mommy! Mommy! Nina squealed as she ran down the hallway.

Stop running, Nina Bear. Too late! De’Andrea cringed at the sound of falling cardboard boxes.

Sorry, Mr. Moving Box! And you too, Mrs. Moving Box. Nina apologized to each carton as she restacked them. I hope I didn’t hurt you!

I’m sure the moving boxes weren’t injured, De’Andrea reasoned. "And if, by chance, one did get a little scrape or bruise, I’m sure it will forgive you. She laughed. Come here, sweet girl."

Nina rounded the corner, twirling in a pink and white tulle dress. Aside from inheriting her mother’s almond complexion, she’d stolen her father’s whole face. Giving her best impression of a ballerina, Nina tapped her heels together and gave an impressive plié. This seemed to be her thing as of late, especially when De’Andrea styled her hair into a topknot. Maybe it was time to look into dance lessons.

Hi, Mommy! Nina wrapped her arms around De’Andrea’s legs and gave them a big hug.

Hey, sunshine! You look so pretty, my little rainbow baby. She kissed Nina’s dimpled cheeks obsessively, which caused them both to giggle uncontrollably.

Thank you, Mommy. You look pretty, too, even though you’re not dressed yet. Tonight’s going to be the best party ever! Auntie Toni is coming, and Uncle Craig, and my friends Jasmine and Junior, and Auntie Simone . . . Nina rattled off the guest list like a sports announcer as she continued to twirl and marvel at layers of white-trimmed ruffles fanning out around her.

As De’Andrea slipped into her favorite black strapless sundress, she was taken aback by her mirrored reflection. Was that a smile? It was a weak one, but a smile nonetheless. She’d take it. Nina’s youthful optimism about their dreaded Farewell, Friends dinner was almost contagious.

Almost.

* * *

Saying that she felt like she was at the Last Supper might have been a bit dramatic, but this was De’Andrea’s last taste of Coleman’s Southern goodness until she returned for a visit. So De’Andrea savored every bite of jerk salmon, smoked Gouda mac-and-cheese, and candied yams. If Rolling Hills’ restaurants were anything like that yoga studio she saw, their restaurant options were bound to be what Malik called milk-toast. As in as plain as plain could be. She’d howled with laughter when he explained the meaning, but damn if she hadn’t used milk-toast to describe white folks’ stuff ever since.

Between reminiscing about their early years in Atlanta, LL barking back whenever Simone chimed in, and the hilarious commentary from the nearby kids’ table, De’Andrea couldn’t help but be grateful the evening was filled with more joy than sadness. She aimed her Nikon camera at Craig and Toni mid-argument. C’mon, y’all, you know the drill.

Aight aight! Come here, boo. Gimme some suga. Craig grabbed Toni’s face in his hands and puckered up to her. Mwah! Mwah!

Stop, fool! Toni laughed as she leaned backward in an attempt to escape her husband’s kisses.

De’Andrea snapped away, smiling at the beautiful images she was capturing. As usual, Craig and Toni were wearing their standard uniforms of black on black, a decision they’d made after welcoming the twins and needing to make as few choices as possible. Jasmine and Junior! The children who’d made De’Andrea an auntie-by-love. The thought of not being able to see them regularly made De’Andrea’s eyes water.

Click.

She aimed her camera at Simone, capturing her childhood bestie with her mouth wide open mid-cackle as several of her wild ginger curls fell into her face. What was she going to do without her sounding board and confidant living nearby? Sure, she could (and would) always call Simone. But what about those hard life moments when she needed her bestie to hold her while she cried like a baby? What was she going to do then? LL looked up at De’Andrea sweetly, and for a moment she forgot that his wide brown eyes were portals to hell. God, she was even gon’ miss the damn dog! Surely, hopefully, they’d meet other Black folks in Rolling Hills, but De’Andrea knew she’d never be able to replace this crew. Nor did she want to.

Once the kids were finally set up in Nina’s playroom with enough snacks to feed a small army while they watched Disney, it was grown folks’ party time. De’Andrea took the first slice of what she knew would be many thin slices of Coleman’s infamous seven-layer red velvet cake. Sure, she could just take one large hunk. But where was the fun in that?

So, how is Mama Whitman? Toni filled her wineglass with Riesling. Is she all settled in?

She is. Malik popped the cork on another bottle. "Mama’s doing great. I mean, she even sounds happier."

Yeah, Memory Village is everything, De’Andrea chimed in. "I mean, disguising a residential medical facility as a small town is just genius. There’s a library where she can check out books and take classes and whatnot. There’s even a little strip called Main Street where they have boutiques and shops.

"Mama has no idea that everyone in town—De’Andrea made air quotes—are other dementia patients, medical staff, security, etcetera. She thinks they’re all her neighbors!"

Wow. Toni shook her head in disbelief. That’s brilliant on so many levels. Of course, the only downside is that it’s in the middle of nowhere.

Right. That part. De’Andrea took a long swig from her glass.

Wait. Mama Whitman can go shopping? Simone asked. "How does that work?"

It’s no-currency shopping, De’Andrea explained as she poured herself another half glass of wine. That was the best part about hosting—not having to worry about being too drunk to drive home. So whenever Mama goes into any of the shops in Memory Village, the boutiques, grocery store, whatever, she swipes this little card. It looks like a debit card, but it’s not linked to her bank account or anything. Just another part of Memory Village’s approach to holistic care. It helps Mama maintain a sense of normalcy—

Malik interrupted. And, more importantly, her dignity, because that’s what truly matters with this type of care. Elder care in general really . . .

Ah, Malik the mansplainer. Repeating my words yet again. De’Andrea chugged her wine and put the glass down forcefully on the table. What you should be telling them is that if it wasn’t for me, ya momma would be living in some random facility somewhere!

Gonna grab more wine, she mouthed to Malik as he continued to rattle off the facts and statistics about holistic dementia care that she taught him.

As usual, she’d done everything. The research on Mama’s diagnosis. The pros and cons of in-home versus residential care. She’d searched for the best long-term dementia care facilities on the East Coast and found Memory Village. And sacrificed her perfect life in Atlanta to move to Rolling Hills so they could live a short drive away from his mama.

And, as usual, Malik had the nerve to take all the credit.

De’Andrea had a lot of feelings about all of it—feels that caused her to think the most awful thoughts, some of which she was even too afraid to share with her therapist. Because she didn’t really want to smother Malik with a pillow while he was sleeping, did she?

After spending a few minutes alone in the kitchen composing herself, she grabbed a bottle from the wine fridge and took a deep breath before returning to the dining room.

Throughout the evening, De’Andrea continued to snap candids chronicling the last dinner party in what she had thought would be their forever home. Her obsession with photography used to annoy her friends, but as the years passed, they’d come to appreciate her as the archivist of their lives. She glanced at her watch and waved to get Malik’s attention.

It’s time. De’Andrea smiled.

He nodded and tapped the side of his wineglass. "My people, my people. Y’all already know how we feel about this move. Of course, we’re grateful to have found the perfect place for Mama in Memory Village. But unfortunately, that means leaving our village. Over the years, we’ve all become more than friends. We’re family. And my beautiful and amazing wife prepared something special to remind us of that."

De’Andrea walked over to dim the crystal chandelier before lowering the theater screen and turning on the projector. Then she synced her phone and opened the digital file labeled Not a Goodbye. Instantly, one of her favorite quotes appeared on the screen.

This is not a goodbye, my darling, this is a thank you.—Nicholas Sparks

Oh Lawd, I’m finna cry. Toni picked up her dinner napkin, which was already stained with brown concealer from wiping away her tears throughout the evening.

Ummm, I think there’ll be more laughing than crying, Malik promised as the rhythmic beats of Too $hort’s Blow the Whistle began blaring through the speakers.

Aye! Simone jumped out of her chair and did a li’l twerk two-step. "That’s my joint! And Too $hort can still get it! LL barked violently and Simone patted his carrier. Don’t worry, bookie bear. I’m not serious. You know you’re the only man in my life!"

The music transitioned to ’90s R&B classics as a photo of Simone and De’Andrea in their late twenties appeared on the screen. Wearing baggy jeans, crop tops, and shell-toe Adidas, the two friends stood arms crossed in their best B-boy stances under a Welcome to Atlanta sign outside a crowded club that no longer existed.

Okay, I cannot take this cuteness! Toni squealed as more youthful images of the friends followed. Look at baby Dee Dee and baby Moni! I hadn’t even met y’all yet!

De’Andrea had not only been Simone’s first friend, but there were also many seasons in life when she’d been her only friend. Fair-skinned and lanky, Simone’s appearance hadn’t changed much since their coming-of-age years. Only now, instead of dyeing her hair black to avoid being ridiculed, she embraced her naturally red curls. Growing up in the ghettos of Mississippi as a redbone with red hair hadn’t been easy.

We scrimped and scraped all our pennies together to move to Atlanta. The big city! Simone laughed.

So big! De’Andrea laughed at the memory. Traveling to Georgia was their first time outside of Mississippi and, as far as the two friends were concerned, they might as well have been moving to Paris.

Remember how excited I was when I got that art scholarship? Simone asked. But then I still got that good financial aid so we could live off those interest-free student loans while you studied for the bar? Because you wanted to be a big-time lawyer so you could be rich-rich? But it just ended up making you tired-tired?

Do I! De’Andrea laughed. God, we were the original ‘young and the restless’—and reckless!

When De’Andrea passed the bar exam on her first try, the two friends had celebrated with Krystal mini burgers and boxed wine. Their celebratory tradition continued even after De’Andrea started earning a six-figure salary at a prestigious law firm and celebrities were buying Simone’s Afrofuturistic art faster than she could paint the images on canvases. Soon, the little burgers and boxed wine became the friends’ litmus test to see if someone was too bougie to join their clique.

Given her Black generational wealth pedigree, they hadn’t expected De’Andrea’s legal peer, Toni, to devour a stack of ten cheesy sliders and wash them down with red cups filled with cheap wine without a single complaint. De’Andrea and Simone had been instantly smitten. Toni was the reason their besties group chat would ultimately be renamed the girls.

The three women screamed with laughter when a photo of Toni pre–Craig and the twins popped up on the screen. She was sleeping on a sofa in De’Andrea and Simone’s first apartment, mouth agape in a Krystal-and-boxed-wine-induced coma.

Umph umph umph. Craig feigned disappointment. I can’t believe I married that woman.

"Excuse me? That woman is the best thing that ever happened to you, sir. Toni playfully waved her fist in front of his face. Say I ain’t. I dare you!"

You is, Toni. Craig grabbed her fist and kissed it. You is smart. You is kind. You is . . .

For the next twenty minutes, the slideshow took the friends down memory lane. De’Andrea and Simone in their first luxury apartment in Midtown. Simone kissing the futuristic-looking painting of the Obamas that launched her career from struggling artist to in-demand artisan. De’Andrea and Toni standing in front of the law firm where they’d met, their sleek shoulder-length bobs, black suits, and matching pumps making them look more like clones than colleagues. Malik and Craig sitting on the steps of their Morehouse dorm, looking barely old enough to drive. Toni hugging her then-boyfriend, Craig, wearing a hot pink bikini at what still reigned as one of Atlanta’s most epic early 2000s pool parties. De’Andrea and Malik on a blind date after being set up by Toni. Simone side-eyeing Malik as De’Andrea looked up at him lovingly. Malik side-eyeing Simone as she looked down at her new fur baby, LL, strapped to her chest in a BabyBjörn carrier.

Engagement and wedding photos. Housewarming parties and couples’ getaways. Milestone Dirty Thirty birthday parties followed by the births of their children. And more recent Forty & Fabulous celebrations and family vacations. When the slideshow ended with a photo of De’Andrea at her most recent birthday party surrounded by dozens of their neighbors and friends, the girlfriends didn’t even try to hold back their tears. They hugged tightly as they wept, promising to call and text daily, FaceTime weekly, and not let too much time pass between visits.

De’Andrea’s life partnership with Simone spanned over thirty-six years. Toni had not only introduced her to Malik but also supported her evolution as they both transitioned from partner-track-driven young associates to stay-at-home wives and mothers. How was De’Andrea ever going to do life without them? She was the woman she was because of them.

This is not a goodbye, my darlings, this is a thank you.

And De’Andrea was thankful. Because she knew her girlfriends would honor their promises to keep in touch and visit. More than anything, she just wished they didn’t have to.

Two

Rebecca

Rebecca Myland loved vacations.

Scratch that.

She loved planning vacations.

Once she was on them, however, she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Even now, with all the elements present for a picture-perfect late summer escape: a vivid blue sky with not a single cloud, a light northeast breeze keeping the temperature just right, and a luxury rental home with a heated saltwater pool that could entertain her kids when she didn’t feel like making the schlep to the beach. If only she could figure out how to sit still.

Her family didn’t have this same problem, of course. Why would they? She had everything covered. Her husband Todd was currently still sleeping in. His brother Jack and wife Tina probably were, too. Child-free and carefree, they could do whatever they wanted. But Rebecca had been watching her daughters play in the pool since practically the crack of dawn. At what age would they start sleeping in? Not that it mattered. Rebecca couldn’t stay in bed past 6 a.m. anyway.

Having finished arranging the to-do list categories in her latest organization app, Don’t Let Me Forget, Rebecca side-eyed the book on the small table next to her lounger. She felt like the cover was judging her: Woke Yet? Wake Up! Understanding the History of Race & Racism. She hadn’t cracked it open, which she felt bad about. But every time she’d get ready to pick it up, the girls would summon her with another Watch how many mermaid twists I can do! or Do a Boomerang of us jumping in!

She would read the book on this trip, though. Or at least start it. She had already emailed the other moms, encouraging them to finish it before school started in a few weeks. Our first book club meeting of the year will be upon us before we know it, ladies! She knew she needed to take her own advice.

But first, a little bit of Instagram.

August on the East Coast meant everyone was on vacation. And everyone seemed to be doing it better than Rebecca, judging from all the Hello from . . . beach and poolside selfies on her feed that morning.

Really, Harita?

A reel on Rebecca’s timeline showed a series of photos and videos of Harita Garrison and her family being greeted by resort staff, running toward the ocean in slow motion, on a boat ride, snorkeling, at least five different dinner plates filled with colorful, gourmet meals, and then, finally, a video of her children crashed in their hotel bed snoring with the caption, We did allllll the things! Thank you, Turks & Caicos!

Rebecca took a screenshot of the last frame and texted it to her girlfriends with the message, Is she on vacation or working for the Board of Tourism? She felt satisfied with their immediate reactions—a stream of eye rolling, laughing, and face-palm emojis.

Rebecca opened her camera app. You’re not the only one living your best life, Miss Harita.

Arm extended, she tilted her head down and to the left to show her good side. She lifted her phone at a forty-five-degree angle, capturing her defined shoulders in the frame, as well as her white halter bikini top and a tasteful peek of cleavage. She pushed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, trying the red-carpet hack she’d learned for showing more cheekbone.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

She brought her phone down and examined the results.

Ugh. What the hell?

Whatever