“She is intelligent, ambitious, independent, and surrounded by friends who love her. She has a career, a growing skincare business, and the kind of personality that can light up a room. To the outside world, Kayla appears to be doing just fine. But beneath the confidence and humor is a woman who wants what so many people desire: to be loved without feeling that she must change herself to deserve it."
READ SAMPLES
Explore selected excerpts from PHAT GIRL by: Jay V Jones. These samples highlight identity, faith, family, and survival—then you can choose your preferred edition in the ebook store.
SAMPLE ONE
THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP
While standing in front of her full-length mirror, Kayla tugged at her dress, and forced herself to look. The woman staring back at her wasn’t a stranger. She knew this body: the soft, generous curves, the full cheeks that puffed when she laughed, the brown skin that people always said was “so pretty,” like it was an accessory and not part of her. Her hair was pulled into a high bun, a few loose strands framing her face. Her makeup was subtle—gold on her eyelids, gloss on her lips. She looked…nice.
She also felt like screaming.
“Okay, Kay,” she whispered to her reflection. “Mask on.”
She straightened her shoulders, pulled the wrap dress a little tighter around her waist, and gave the mirror what everyone else saw—a bright, confident smile that made people say things like, You always light up the room and Girl, I wish I had your energy.
Nobody ever said, I see how lonely you are.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser. The group chat, titled, “Feast & Talk Queens,” lit up the screen.
Lisa: Y’all, I’m starving. Did anybody die today so we can cancel or nah?
Michelle: I’m already in the car. And I look too cute to cancel.
Jasmine: On my way. Kayla better have my chair ready.
Sarah: 22 minutes away. If the food not hot by the time I get there, I’m writing all of you out of my will.
Kayla smiled for real this time. Her girls always knew how to pull her out of her head.
Kayla: Food’s ready. And yes, Jas, your seat is waiting. Don’t be late or Michelle’s taking your chicken.
From the kitchen, the smell of garlic, butter, and roasted herbs drifted down the hallway. She’d gone overboard again—baked chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and a big bowl of salad that the girls would pretend to eat. “We love balance,” they always joked.
Kayla checked the dining table one more time. Plates, forks, cloth napkins folded into neat little triangles. Candles burning in simple glass jars. A bouquet of sunflowers from the grocery store sitting in a mason jar in the center.
It wasn’t fancy, but it felt warm. It felt like them.
The doorbell rang.
“Coming!” she called, smoothing her dress one last time before heading to the door.
She opened it to a whirlwind of red curls, perfume, and chaos.
“Baby!” Lisa practically sang, stepping into the apartment like she owned the building. “Do you know I almost fought your security guard downstairs? He told me my parking was illegal. I told him my existence is illegal. Now where’s the food?”
Lisa was exactly who people pictured when they imagined a woman who ran a marketing department at a downtown Chicago firm: tailored coat in winter white, lipstick that matched nothing and somehow matched everything, heels high enough to cause injuries. Her curly red hair framed her pale face, and her green eyes sparkled with a constant mix of sarcasm and mischief.
“Hi, Lisa,” Kayla said, laughing. “You know some people say hello before demanding chicken.”
“Some people ain’t been in meetings with ugly men all day. I deserve carbs and comfort.” Lisa kissed Kayla’s cheek in greeting, then sniffed the air. “Mac and cheese? I knew it. Your love language.”
“Food is everybody’s love language,” Kayla replied. “You know where your wine glass is.”
Before Lisa could respond, the door swung wider, and Jasmine rushed in, juggling a tote bag, a pan of store-bought brownies, and her car keys.
“Don’t judge me,” Jasmine said, holding up the brownies. “I had three employee meltdowns, two managers lying to my face, and one termination today. You’re lucky I brought anything.”
Jasmine had the kind of presence that made people spill their secrets. Her deep brown skin glowed, and she wore her thick hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Even in jeans and a simple blouse, she gave off “assistant director of HR” energy—competent, composed, but always one step away from a dramatic eye roll.
“Girl, you know we’ll eat those brownies like you baked them from scratch,” Kayla said, taking the pan. “Stress level that bad?”
“Let’s just say I earned every crumb,” Jasmine replied, kicking off her flats and slipping into the house slippers Kayla kept by the door. “Where’s Michelle? She’s always early when food’s involved.”
“Already at my stove,” Kayla said.
Sure enough, when they walked into the kitchen, Michelle was there, hip-bumped against the counter, stirring something on the stove that Kayla had clearly finished already.
“Don’t touch my gravy,” Kayla warned.
“Too late,” Michelle replied, licking a spoon. “Your gravy’s flirting with me. I had to respond.”
Michelle was a walking art exhibit: bright patterns, bold earrings, flawless eyeliner. Her dark brown skin glowed against the yellow jumpsuit she’d squeezed herself into. A graphic designer by day, a professional “extra” by nature, she saw the world in colors and shapes—and turned everything into a story.
“You look like sunshine,” Kayla said.
“I know.” Michelle winked. “I’m doing color therapy on myself. My boss sent me a ‘quick edit’ at 4:58 p.m. That man is a demon.”
SAMPLE TWO
WHERE LOYALTY LIVES
Kayla woke up before the sun, the quiet kind of morning where the world felt gentle enough not to demand anything from her yet. She stretched, checked her phone, and rolled her eyes.
Three unread messages from her boss.
Six in the morning.
On a Saturday.
She whispered into her pillow, “The man needs a hobby… or a woman.”
Across the apartment, in the guest room, she heard Michelle humming — off-key, but upbeat in that naturally bright way she came wired. Michelle was already dressed for her shift at the nonprofit clinic: navy scrubs, curly hair pinned back, coffee in her hand the size of a small bucket.
“Morning, sunshine,” Michelle called, sticking her head into Kayla’s doorway. “You up, or you just scrolling?”
“Both,” Kayla said, sitting up. “My boss is allergic to boundaries.”
“Well,” Michelle shrugged, “you’re allergic to unemployment, so text him back.”
Kayla grabbed a pillow and threw it. “Get out.”
Michelle laughed and dodged it. “Love you too. Breakfast is on the stove. Eggs, turkey sausage, and whatever’s left of that fruit you pretend you’re gonna finish.”
The apartment door clicked behind her, leaving Kayla in a quiet she didn’t hate, just… felt.
She slowly padded to the kitchen where steaming food waited under a foil cover. Michelle always cooked like somebody’s mom — nurturing even when she didn’t try. Kayla sat at the counter, fork in hand, mind drifting to last night’s conversation with Jasmine.
The loyalty talk.
The man problems talk.
The “girl, you deserve better” talk.
Jasmine, corporate strategist, always calm, always polished, and always right in ways Kayla didn’t want to admit.
Her voice still echoed in Kayla’s head:
“You pour into people who don’t pour back. That’s not loyalty, Kay. That’s draining yourself because you’re scared they’ll leave if you don’t.”
Kayla stabbed a piece of pineapple harder than necessary.
“Not wrong,” she whispered.
Her phone buzzed again — a text from Jasmine this time.
Jasmine: Morning. Don’t forget lunch today. And don’t cancel on me like you like to do when your boss stresses you out.
Kayla: I’m coming. Promise.
Jasmine: Good. I’ll choose the restaurant. Don’t argue.
Kayla smiled. With Jasmine, there was no room for chaos. Everything had structure, intention, order. Kayla needed that more than she admitted.
She showered, dressed in fitted slacks and a soft beige sweater — subtle, stylish, but not trying too hard. Chicago weather didn’t allow for anything light anyway.
As she applied her makeup, soft gold shadows and muted browns, she studied her own eyes in the mirror. They looked tired in that emotional way, the kind sleep couldn’t fix.
“You are fine,” she whispered to herself, then paused.
“No, you will be fine.”
By noon, she arrived at Solstice, the downtown restaurant Jasmine loved for its clean lines and overpriced salads. Michelle was already there too — she somehow always beat traffic like she had a personal arrangement with the streets.
Jasmine waved them over from a corner booth, long braids cascading down her back, gold hoops catching the light as she tilted her head with that signature smirk.
“Well,” Jasmine said as they sat down, “look who actually showed up on time.”
Kayla rolled her eyes. “Funny.”
Michelle leaned in. “Can we get menus before she starts lecturing? I’m starving.”
The waiter appeared instantly — Jasmine clearly had a regular’s pull. They ordered their usuals: grilled salmon salad for Jasmine, pasta for Michelle, and a chicken flatbread for Kayla.
Once the waiter left, Jasmine folded her hands on the table.
“So,” she began, “we’re gonna talk about yesterday.”
Kayla groaned. “Can we not?”
Michelle sipped her iced tea. “We absolutely can.”
Kayla glared at both of them. “Why am I being jumped?”
“Because we love you,” Michelle said, leaning her chin on her hand. “And when your work life is toxic, your dating life follows right behind like an untrained puppy.”
Jasmine nodded. “Exactly. And right now, both are messy.”
Kayla slumped. “I’m fine.”
“You’re functioning,” Jasmine corrected softly. “But you’re not fine.”
The words landed heavier than Kayla expected. She glanced down at her hands.
Michelle touched her wrist gently. “What’s going on with you and Marcus?”
Kayla hesitated.
Her chest tightened.
The truth tried to slip out, then stalled.
“Nothing,” she said too quickly.
Jasmine’s eyes narrowed. “Kayla. Spill.”
Kayla looked between them — her sisters in every way that mattered. She swallowed.
“He hasn’t called,” she said quietly. “It’s been three weeks.”
SAMPLE THREE
GIRLS, MEN, AND THE MESS BETWEEN
Sunday’s brunch at her home was just like church, for the ones who didn’t quite make it to church, Kayla always said.
By seven o’clock, her condo smelled like garlic, butter, and every bad decision a nutritionist would warn you about. Shrimp and grits bubbled on the stove, mac and cheese was in the oven doing that slow, holy bake, and a pan of honey–hot wings waited under foil, sweating in their own sauce. The TV murmured some reality show she wasn’t even watching; her playlist—90s R&B and a little neo-soul—set the real mood.
She wiped her hands on a towel and glanced at the full-length mirror in the hallway. The same one that caught her on nights when she picked herself apart. Tonight, she tilted her head, pressed her lips together.
“Okay, sis,” she whispered to her reflection. “Big girl magic. Smile.”
She adjusted her wrap dress, smoothed it over her hips, then turned away before she could start critiquing her arms or her stomach. The doorbell rang.
“That’s gotta be Lisa. Right on cue.”
Kayla opened the door to a burst of perfume, cold air, and attitude.
“Bitch, it smells like heaven in here,” Lisa announced, strutting in with a bottle of red wine held high like a trophy. Her fiery hair was twisted into a messy bun that somehow looked intentional, her fitted blazer over skinny jeans giving “I close deals and break hearts” simultaneously.
“Don’t come in here cussing at my door,” Kayla laughed, leaning in for a hug. “Give me this.” She took the wine, checking the label. “You went fancy tonight.”
“I got a bonus. Let me show off,” Lisa replied, already toeing off her heels. “Where my girls at?”
“Early bird gets the macaroni bubbles,” Kayla said, heading back to the kitchen.
Lisa followed, perching on one of the barstools. “You look cute, Kay. I like this dress.”
“You only saying that ‘cause you know I cooked.”
“Both can be true,” Lisa shrugged.
The door opened again without a knock.
“Y’all better not be talking about me,” Jasmine called out, stepping in with a grocery store cake balanced in one hand. She was in scrubs, hair wrapped in a colorful scarf, sneakers looking like they’d seen a twelve-hour shift.
“Hey, mama!” Kayla greeted, crossing the room to hug her.
Jasmine melted into the hug for a second before rolling her eyes up at the ceiling. “If one more grown man comes in my office crying about performance reviews I’ma start charging for therapy,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her.
“HR Jesus,” Lisa said, making the sign of the cross. “Bless ‘em and block ‘em.”
They all laughed.
“Where’s Sarah?” Jasmine asked, dropping the cake on the counter. “She’s usually here with a spreadsheet and a salad, judging us.”
Kayla smirked. “She said she’s coming straight from work. Probably had a date with Excel.”
“Or with that lame accountant she keeps pretending she’s not dating,” Lisa added. “Girl swears she doesn’t like him but stays letting him fix her taxes.”
Kayla’s phone buzzed on the counter.
Sarah: Parking. Save me wings.
Kayla typed back a chicken emoji and a side-eye face.
Michelle was last, like always—bursting in with her giant tote bag, paint on her hands, and some wild new hair color. Tonight it was turquoise tips fading into her curls like the ocean.
“I brought cookies!” she announced. “And by brought I mean I stopped at that bakery y’all like and lied like I made them.”
“Long as they sugar and butter, I don’t care if they fell from the sky,” Jasmine said.
By the time they were all gathered, it was the same old ritual: plates piled high, wine poured, shoes off, legs tucked under them on Kayla’s big sectional.
From the outside looking in, they were four polished women and one very intentional hostess. Anyone passing by the window would see a group of successful friends having a lovely evening. Nobody would see the stories that got them there.
They met ten years earlier, long before the Sunday feasts and inside jokes, in a sterile conference basement with stale coffee and bad lighting.
Back then, Kayla had been sitting in a corner at a professional development seminar, tugging at the hem of a blazer that wouldn’t quite button. The chairs were too small, the room too cold, and the presenter too boring. “Networking Breakfast for Young Professionals,” the flyer had said. In reality, it was a room full of people pretending not to be awkward.
She remembered how alone she had felt that day. Too big for the chairs, too quiet for the loud talkers, too… extra whenever she laughed. She was scrolling mindlessly through her phone to avoid eye contact when a chair scraped beside her.
“You look like you’re making a grocery list to survive this,” a voice said.
Kayla looked up to see Lisa—back then with a sharp bob, red lipstick, and the kind of confidence that made people look twice.
“I’m counting exits,” Kayla confessed. “In case I need to fake a bathroom break and never come back.”
Lisa laughed, tipping her head back. “I like you already. I’m Lisa.” She stuck out her hand.
“Kayla.”
“Well, Kayla, if we suffer, we suffer together.”
They’d spent the rest of the session whispering sarcastic commentary and grading everyone’s outfits. When the seminar ended, Lisa had said: “I’m not done complaining. Want to get brunch?” Kayla had hesitated, then surprised herself by saying yes.
That brunch turned into a three-hour conversation and the first of many shared plates.
A year later, it was Lisa who dragged Kayla to a charity mixer downtown.
“I don’t belong here,” Kayla had said, smoothing her thrift-store dress while other women floated by in designer gowns.
“You belong anywhere I say you belong,” Lisa replied, taking her hand. “Now stand up straight. If anybody asks, we own the building.”
They ended up stuck at a high-top with no chairs. Kayla’s feet hurt in the cheap heels she was still breaking in. That’s when a woman with curls pinned back and a name tag that read Jasmine – HR Manager approached, holding two glasses of wine and an expression that said she’d rather be home.
“Some guy just told me I ‘look like I’m good with people’ and tried to hand me his resume,” Jasmine muttered, accidentally joining their circle. “If I see one more LinkedIn pitch—sorry, I’m talking too much.”
“You’re in HR?” Lisa asked, eyes lighting up. “You must have stories.”
Jasmine gave them a sly smile. “You have no idea.”
She told them about the time a manager asked if she could “write up” someone for having bad vibes. Kayla laughed so hard she almost dropped her drink.
“You here alone?” Kayla asked when she caught her breath.
“Girl, yes. My cousin bailed. I don’t know anybody here.”
“You do now,” Lisa said, hooking an arm through Jasmine’s. “We’re forming a support group.”
“Survivors of Awkward Events,” Kayla added.
“Wine included,” Jasmine said.
By the end of the night, they’d swapped numbers and promises to hang out somewhere that didn’t require name tags.
SAMPLE FOUR
LINES WE DON’T CROSS
For Kayla, Monday began with the biting kind of cold Chicago reserved for people who didn’t want to leave their beds. She stepped out of the Uber with her coffee cupped between both hands, holding it against her chest like it was the last warm thing on earth. Her heels tapped against the concrete as she hurried inside the steel-and-glass building that towered over the street like a monument to stress.
The lobby smelled like citrus polish and ambition. People moved with purpose, eyes focused, and voices low. Kayla slipped into the elevator and pressed the button to her floor, already bracing herself for the day. She didn’t hate her job, not exactly. She hated being invisible inside of it. She was the one they called when everything fell apart, but never the one they called into the room where decisions were made.
When she reached her desk, her inbox was already bleeding with red “urgent” flags.
I need those numbers revised before 10.
Follow up with accounting ASAP.
Also, schedule me a haircut.
Kayla stared at that last one, blinked twice, and whispered under her breath, “You grown-ass man… book your own haircut.” She dropped her bag and powered on her computer, willing herself not to flip the desk.
Her coworker, Janelle, walked in like the building was hers, wearing a camel blazer, sleek bun, and the effortless glow of someone who actually slept at night. She perched on the corner of Kayla’s desk.
“You look like you’re about to quit,” Janelle said.
“I wanted to quit last year,” Kayla replied dryly. “Today is just the sequel.”
“What ridiculous task is he sending you now? Heart transplant? Brain surgery?”
“Worse,” Kayla said. “He wants me to schedule his haircut.”
Janelle shook her head slowly. “I pray for you. Daily.”
Kayla’s phone buzzed. A message from Michelle.
Don’t forget we’re meeting Jasmine tonight. She has ‘news.’
Kayla texted back, God. She’s not pregnant, is she?
Michelle replied instantly. No. If she was, she’d send us a calendar invite.
Kayla laughed out loud, loud enough to get side-eyes from two desks away. It felt good, even for a second, to let something break through the monotony.
The rest of the day blurred into emails, phone calls, follow-ups, and moments where Kayla had to physically remind herself not to curse her boss out. By mid-afternoon her brain felt mushy, her patience thin, her spirit craving escape. When the clock finally hit quitting time, she packed quickly and headed to the garage.
The silence inside her car felt holy.
She needed this night with her girls.
Jasmine’s condo sat high above the city, all clean lines, white walls, and a subtle smell of expensive candles. Kayla knocked once, and Michelle’s laughter poured through the door before it even opened.
Jasmine swung it wide, staring at Kayla. “Finally. We were literally starting to talk shit.”
“You talk shit when I’m here,” Kayla said, stepping inside.
“And we do it very well,” Michelle added, curled up on the couch, shoes already off and a bowl of popcorn in her lap like it was her natural habitat.
Jasmine poured wine for all of them—red for herself, white for Michelle, and rosé for Kayla. They had their styles, their flavors, and never had to ask. That was the beauty of their circle: they understood each other without explanation.
“Okay,” Jasmine said, settling into her chair with her legs crossed. “Let’s get to it.”
Michelle pointed at her with her bowl. “Yes. Because you texted us with urgency. I had to stop watching my show.”
Jasmine inhaled, sat straighter, and said, “I got offered a promotion.”
Kayla’s mouth fell open. “Jasmine! That’s incredible!”
Michelle clapped loudly. “Look at you! Climbing ladders!”
“Wait,” Jasmine said, raising her hand. “Before you start planning a celebration… the job is in London.”
The entire room stilled.
Kayla blinked. “London as in… the actual London?”
“Yes,” Jasmine said. “As in tea, royalty, and men with accents that make you irresponsible.”
Michelle leaned forward. “For how long?”
“Two years.”
Kayla felt something sink inside her. Not sharply, not painfully. Just a slow, quiet drop—like the floor shifting an inch beneath her feet.
Michelle was the heart.
Jasmine was the anchor.
Kayla was the one always trying to stand in the middle and balance the weight of both.
“What are you thinking?” Kayla asked softly.
Jasmine stared down at her wine. “I’m thinking… it’s everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve wanted. But it means leaving you two. It means leaving home.”
SAMPLE FIVE
WINE, WORK AND THE WEIGHT OF SECRETS
Thursday nights belonged to the girls. No matter how long their week had been or how many responsibilities tugged at them from every direction, Thursdays stayed untouched. It wasn’t just tradition anymore; it was survival. It was the one place they didn’t have to perform strength or patience or charm. Just themselves.
Kayla arrived last—not out of lateness, but preference. She liked the moment she walked in and saw them all looking her way. It reminded her she belonged somewhere, even if the world outside didn’t always make her feel that way.
Venessa was glowing that night, the way it always did. The wine lounge lived in a narrow alley between a gallery and a florist that smelled permanently of rain. Inside, soft amber lighting brushed every table, warming faces and softening edges. It was an easy place to breathe, a place that made everyone look a little better than they felt.
The girls were already tucked into their booth when Kayla walked in.
Lisa spotted her first. She waved dramatically, bracelets jangling. “Kayla! Finally. We were two seconds from filing a missing person’s report.”
Jasmine, always gentle, smiled up at her. “Come sit, sweetheart. You look beautiful tonight.”
Michelle leaned forward, studying Kayla’s hair. “What did you do? This is giving ‘quiet luxury’ and I love it for you.”
Kayla slid into the booth and adjusted her plum dress. “I didn’t do anything special. Humidity is just flirting with me today.”
Sarah eyed her with warm approval. “Well, it’s working. You look gorgeous.”
Kayla accepted the compliments with a smile she had learned to make look effortless. Inside, they landed in the more tender parts of her—the places that were still learning to believe them.
Their server approached with the familiarity of someone who’d seen their chaos before. “Ladies, the usual wine flight?”
Lisa said, “Absolutely. And bring the truffle flatbread before Kayla starts pretending she doesn’t eat carbs.”
Kayla narrowed her eyes. “I don’t pretend anything. I have standards.”
Michelle grinned. “Standards until someone brings out challah bread.”
Their laughter rolled across the table, rich and loud, uncaring of who heard it.
When the drinks arrived, conversation turned naturally toward work.
Sarah was the first to dive in. “If one more junior analyst hands me numbers that don’t add up, I swear I’m filing a complaint with whoever runs finance heaven. Or hell. Doesn’t matter.”
Lisa rested her chin on her palm. “You need a vacation. Somewhere men don’t say EBITDA like its foreplay.”
Michelle perked up. “Speaking of vacations… I’m thinking Greece this summer. Santorini. Mykonos. I want blue rooftops and questionable decisions.”
Jasmine nodded vigorously. “Yes. Something far away from men who think discrimination law is optional reading.”
Kayla listened as they joked and vented and sipped their wine.
They were loud, brilliant women with big voices and even bigger spirits. Being around them always reminded Kayla of who she wanted to be, a person that was stronger, louder, more certain of herself.
But then, as always, the topic shifted.
Lisa tapped her glass. “Dating updates. Who’s entertaining someone new?”
Michelle raised her hand. “Me. I met someone in Austin last week.”
Sarah groaned. “Not another creative poet who journals under the moon.”
“A structural engineer,” Michelle said smugly. “He journals about bridges.”
The table burst into laughter.
Then the attention turned, naturally and almost too quickly, to Kayla.
“Well?” Jasmine asked softly. “Anything new?”
Kayla shrugged. “Not really. Work has been taking all my time.”
Lisa reached over and squeezed her hand. “Just remember, you deserve a man who actually sees you.”
“I’m not forcing anything,” Kayla said, her voice even but a little thin at the edges.
Sarah nodded. “Good. The wrong man is a liability. And you don’t have space for liabilities.”
Kayla smiled, but something in her chest tightened. Not from offense, not from sadness—just a quiet, familiar ache. She wanted to believe she radiated the strength her friends saw in her. She wanted to believe she wasn’t invisible in rooms where others shined. She wanted to believe she didn’t long for someone to choose her.
Michelle watched her carefully. “Can I say something without making you sad?”
Kayla tilted her head. “That depends.”
“Men notice you,” Michelle said. “More than you realize. You have this… quiet power.”
Jasmine nodded, firm in her tone. “It’s true. In HR, I can always tell when men pay attention. They pay attention to you.”
Kayla offered a soft smile, but inside, she didn’t quite buy it. Her insecurities whispered louder than their reassurances.
When the flatbread and small plates arrived, the conversation blossomed again—stories, complaints, jokes.
Lisa told them about the man who called himself a “financial visionary” while still living with his mother and trading crypto from her basement.
Sarah almost choked on her drink. “That’s not finance. That’s advanced gambling.”
Michelle wiped tears of laughter. “Did he at least have a haircut?”
Lisa scoffed. “Not a single fade in sight.”
Kayla laughed until her shoulders shook, and for a little while the weight inside her loosened.
By the time they paid the bill, the table was cluttered with empty glasses and plates, evidence of a night spent spilling honesty and joy in equal measure.
Outside, the valet pulled up their cars. One by one, the girls hugged her tightly—warm, real, grounding.
“Text us when you get home,” Jasmine said.
“Love you, babe,” Lisa added.
“Same time next week,” Michelle reminded.
Kayla nodded and slipped into her car. The interior smelled like her perfume, her lotion, faint traces of her day. It was quiet, warm, safe.
But the drive home stripped away the laughter and dimmed the glow of the wine. In the dark, her reflection in the window looked softer, more honest. She wondered, not for the first time, why love always seemed to pass her by. Why she could be celebrated by her friends yet overlooked everywhere else. Why she felt almost chosen but never truly claimed.
Her eyes misted, just slightly, but she wiped them before tears could fall. She refused to cry here, in the quiet of her car, with the city buzzing around her.
Not tonight.
Sunday’s brunch at her home was just like church, for the ones who didn’t quite make it to church, Kayla always said.
By seven o’clock, her condo smelled like garlic, butter, and every bad decision a nutritionist would warn you about. Shrimp and grits bubbled on the stove, mac and cheese was in the oven doing that slow, holy bake, and a pan of honey–hot wings waited under foil, sweating in their own sauce. The TV murmured some reality show she wasn’t even watching; her playlist—90s R&B and a little neo-soul—set the real mood.
She wiped her hands on a towel and glanced at the full-length mirror in the hallway. The same one that caught her on nights when she picked herself apart. Tonight, she tilted her head, pressed her lips together.
“Okay, sis,” she whispered to her reflection. “Big girl magic. Smile.”
She adjusted her wrap dress, smoothed it over her hips, then turned away before she could start critiquing her arms or her stomach. The doorbell rang.
“That’s gotta be Lisa. Right on cue.”
Kayla opened the door to a burst of perfume, cold air, and attitude.
“Bitch, it smells like heaven in here,” Lisa announced, strutting in with a bottle of red wine held high like a trophy. Her fiery hair was twisted into a messy bun that somehow looked intentional, her fitted blazer over skinny jeans giving “I close deals and break hearts” simultaneously.
“Don’t come in here cussing at my door,” Kayla laughed, leaning in for a hug. “Give me this.” She took the wine, checking the label. “You went fancy tonight.”
“I got a bonus. Let me show off,” Lisa replied, already toeing off her heels. “Where my girls at?”
“Early bird gets the macaroni bubbles,” Kayla said, heading back to the kitchen.
Lisa followed, perching on one of the barstools. “You look cute, Kay. I like this dress.”
“You only saying that ‘cause you know I cooked.”
“Both can be true,” Lisa shrugged.
The door opened again without a knock.
“Y’all better not be talking about me,” Jasmine called out, stepping in with a grocery store cake balanced in one hand. She was in scrubs, hair wrapped in a colorful scarf, sneakers looking like they’d seen a twelve-hour shift.
“Hey, mama!” Kayla greeted, crossing the room to hug her.
Jasmine melted into the hug for a second before rolling her eyes up at the ceiling. “If one more grown man comes in my office crying about performance reviews I’ma start charging for therapy,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her.
“HR Jesus,” Lisa said, making the sign of the cross. “Bless ‘em and block ‘em.”
They all laughed.
“Where’s Sarah?” Jasmine asked, dropping the cake on the counter. “She’s usually here with a spreadsheet and a salad, judging us.”
Kayla smirked. “She said she’s coming straight from work. Probably had a date with Excel.”
“Or with that lame accountant she keeps pretending she’s not dating,” Lisa added. “Girl swears she doesn’t like him but stays letting him fix her taxes.”
Kayla’s phone buzzed on the counter.
Sarah: Parking. Save me wings.
Kayla typed back a chicken emoji and a side-eye face.
Michelle was last, like always—bursting in with her giant tote bag, paint on her hands, and some wild new hair color. Tonight it was turquoise tips fading into her curls like the ocean.
“I brought cookies!” she announced. “And by brought I mean I stopped at that bakery y’all like and lied like I made them.”
“Long as they sugar and butter, I don’t care if they fell from the sky,” Jasmine said.
By the time they were all gathered, it was the same old ritual: plates piled high, wine poured, shoes off, legs tucked under them on Kayla’s big sectional.
From the outside looking in, they were four polished women and one very intentional hostess. Anyone passing by the window would see a group of successful friends having a lovely evening. Nobody would see the stories that got them there.
They met ten years earlier, long before the Sunday feasts and inside jokes, in a sterile conference basement with stale coffee and bad lighting.
Back then, Kayla had been sitting in a corner at a professional development seminar, tugging at the hem of a blazer that wouldn’t quite button. The chairs were too small, the room too cold, and the presenter too boring. “Networking Breakfast for Young Professionals,” the flyer had said. In reality, it was a room full of people pretending not to be awkward.
She remembered how alone she had felt that day. Too big for the chairs, too quiet for the loud talkers, too… extra whenever she laughed. She was scrolling mindlessly through her phone to avoid eye contact when a chair scraped beside her.
“You look like you’re making a grocery list to survive this,” a voice said.
Kayla looked up to see Lisa—back then with a sharp bob, red lipstick, and the kind of confidence that made people look twice.
“I’m counting exits,” Kayla confessed. “In case I need to fake a bathroom break and never come back.”
Lisa laughed, tipping her head back. “I like you already. I’m Lisa.” She stuck out her hand.
“Kayla.”
“Well, Kayla, if we suffer, we suffer together.”
They’d spent the rest of the session whispering sarcastic commentary and grading everyone’s outfits. When the seminar ended, Lisa had said: “I’m not done complaining. Want to get brunch?” Kayla had hesitated, then surprised herself by saying yes.
That brunch turned into a three-hour conversation and the first of many shared plates.
A year later, it was Lisa who dragged Kayla to a charity mixer downtown.
“I don’t belong here,” Kayla had said, smoothing her thrift-store dress while other women floated by in designer gowns.
“You belong anywhere I say you belong,” Lisa replied, taking her hand. “Now stand up straight. If anybody asks, we own the building.”
They ended up stuck at a high-top with no chairs. Kayla’s feet hurt in the cheap heels she was still breaking in. That’s when a woman with curls pinned back and a name tag that read Jasmine – HR Manager approached, holding two glasses of wine and an expression that said she’d rather be home.
“Some guy just told me I ‘look like I’m good with people’ and tried to hand me his resume,” Jasmine muttered, accidentally joining their circle. “If I see one more LinkedIn pitch—sorry, I’m talking too much.”
“You’re in HR?” Lisa asked, eyes lighting up. “You must have stories.”
Jasmine gave them a sly smile. “You have no idea.”
She told them about the time a manager asked if she could “write up” someone for having bad vibes. Kayla laughed so hard she almost dropped her drink.
“You here alone?” Kayla asked when she caught her breath.
“Girl, yes. My cousin bailed. I don’t know anybody here.”
“You do now,” Lisa said, hooking an arm through Jasmine’s. “We’re forming a support group.”
“Survivors of Awkward Events,” Kayla added.
“Wine included,” Jasmine said.
By the end of the night, they’d swapped numbers and promises to hang out somewhere that didn’t require name tags.