Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Thirty: Vultures

AMEL

The arcade buzzes with funky noises, alive with games and chatter. Diamond and Kyren are facing off in a wild Skee-Ball showdown. Their competitive streaks shine as they try to outwit each other. Neon lights paint their joyous faces, highlighting their uncanny resemblance. It's a damn miracle that Diamond's standing strong after suffering from her ex-husband's abuse. And Kyren, whom the same violence could've easily orphaned, is safe and loved in his mother's care—an even bigger blessing. Their restored happiness reminds me of Cierre and myself. We are mere illustrations of the resilient nature of the human soul.

Or maybe I'm just in my feelings.

Ci deserves some serious credit for graciously stepping aside tonight and allowing me to spend time with D and Ky. She might have concerns about how tight Diamond and I are, but she's a master at hiding them. When she met Kyren, she slipped into her whimsical "princess" persona and complimented his handsomeness. The little rugrat has been teasing me about it every five minutes.

I wonder what she's up to now; probably binge-watching a television drama or secretly plotting something for my birthday tomorrow.

Kyren defeats his momma, but Diamond protests that they "run that 'ish back!" While they dive back into it, I check my phone.

What's with all these damn notifications?

A nigga can't have a day of peace.

Unctie: 🚨 CALL ME BACK! DON'T LOOK ON SOCIAL MEDIA! 🚨

Unctie: AND YOU BEST NOT DO SOMETHING STUPID.

The last time Unctie sent siren emojis I was on social media's chopping block, accused of breaking Cierre's heart.

Once welcoming and warm, the festive atmosphere becomes as frigid and treacherous as a polar bear's den. I freeze in place as my awareness of the public's perception sharpens. Unflinching stares zero in on me. Some folks whisper behind their raised hands, casting side glances. Others snicker, their eyes glistening with malice. The group of homegirls who have been "lowkey" following me, licking their lips and giggling, now cast sympathetic glances my way.

I hastily open Instagram, searching for the most toxic, shadiest blog account on the platform. Sure enough, the latest post on Sip This involves my name, Cierre's, and stupid ass emojis.

#WhatsTea ☕: Just When We Thought Black Love Found A Way, A Damaging Video Of Cierre Holyfield Has Leaked. 😱😨 The Footage Appears To Be Old, But Our Beloved Sweetheart Had Some Cruel Words To Say About Her Boo, R&B Heartthrob, Amel. 😕💔 Watch What Happens As Her Manager Sydney Williams Comforts Her. 🤔🫣 #SwipeRight 👉

My hand trembles, causing the text to wobble. Cruel words? Syd comforting her? The fuck do they mean by that?

I rush towards the nearest exit, moving as swiftly as my pounding heart. Phones whip out, directed at my face; I dodge past them, desperate to avoid further scrutiny. As I keep my head low, cowards become bolder and holler taunting remarks.

"That's what you get for being a cheater!" Someone ridicules.

A baritone voice adds in a humored tone. "She did your ass dirty, nigga!"

"Amel, fuck her!" A supporter shouts passionately. "I got a shoulder you can cry on!"

I body-check any motherfucker who tries to block my path. Fueled by anger and urgency, I stride into the balmy night. Seeking refuge, I slip into the shadows of an alleyway. Stray cats dart away, and monstrous rats flee in terror.