Seven Days in June(14)

“You won’t even have time to miss me, dog. I’ll text you relentlessly.”

The boy nodded.

“I gotta go. Be good. Just…be good,” said Shane, and then he all but sprinted out the door. He’d run out of words to say. And he was late. And there was a lump in his throat and a tingle behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry, though. He hadn’t since he was seventeen.

Shane slid into the driver’s seat of the rented Audi, blasted the AC, and sped down Route 1 toward Green Airport. He loved that kid too much. He didn’t know how to mentor without loving. Maybe doing this wasn’t healthy.

He knew Ty probably wouldn’t make it to his planetarium internship. He might not make it, period. Shane couldn’t control that, but he would stay in touch. He always did. He had a Ty or a Diamond or a Marisol or a Rashaad in every city. He’d keep them all alive by sheer force of will.

The new Shane didn’t love and then vanish.

That was what he’d done to her. Which was the real reason he was going to New York.

Shane didn’t want—or deserve—anything from her. And he hated the idea of disrupting her life or dredging up the past. But he had to explain what he couldn’t before. Then he’d go.

To his credit, he knew this was a terrible idea. To his discredit, he was doing it anyway.

He had to. Shane couldn’t pretend to embrace his new life when he was still on the run from his old one.

She was a fire he’d started ages ago—and for too long, he’d just let it smolder. It was time to put it out.





Chapter 5





Fun Black Shit




THE STATE OF THE BLACK AUTHOR EVENT WAS A SCENE. THE PANEL WAS BEING held at the Brooklyn Museum’s spacious Cantor Auditorium, and it was staged perfectly. To find the space, you had to wind your way through a warren of rooms showcasing the hottest exhibit in town, Nobody Promised You Tomorrow: Art 50 Years After Stonewall. Every clued-in hipster was pretending to have seen it. By the time the crowd had taken in all the gorgeously curated protest art, everyone had entered the auditorium, hyped for a fiery conversation.

The space was stark, industrial modern, with two hundred or so seats and a massive window looking out onto the Caribbean-flavored Eastern Parkway. The crowd was ablaze with color. It was the first hot week of the year, and the sundresses, statement lipstick, and natural dos were in full bloom. Milling about were a mixed bag of high and low literati: Old Guard writers (whose heyday was circa the ’70s and ’80s); millennial essayists, novelists, and culture journalists; a handful of deeply feared, bespectacled book bloggers; and coeds from Columbia and NYU—whose slogan tees and fashion Birkenstocks screamed “feminist-studies major.” Weaving throughout were digital reporters and their photographers, scanning HELLO MY NAME IS tags to see who was interview-worthy.

Eva was nursing a seltzer with a sprig of basil. She was also concentrating on looking like a person who wasn’t staving off a panic attack. Though she’d killed some time chitchatting with the few publishing vets she knew, she’d quickly realized that to the majority of the crowd, Eva Mercy was unknown—or, at best, recognized as a “name” in a genre that inspires a very silly fan base. And in a few minutes, she’d have to talk knowledgeably about serious things in front of them.

Chill, woman, she told herself, twirling her vintage cameo ring around her finger. It was her lucky talisman, and she was counting on it to pull her through tonight. The ring always calmed her. It was stained, nicked, and possibly a century old. Eva had no idea what Victorian-era woman it had originally belonged to, but decades before, she’d discovered it in her mom’s jewelry box. No doubt it had been gifted to her by some guy. But Lizette hated vintage jewelry—she demanded brand-new diamonds, honey—so she never wore it. Eva cherished old things, though. One day, when she was lonely and pimply and thirteen, Eva stole it from her bedroom. Lizette never noticed. Her mom never noticed anything.

“Sis!”

Hearing the familiar voice, Eva spun around with a relieved smile. It was Belinda Love, the Pulitzer Prize–winning poetess who was one of Eva’s co-panelists. In Belinda’s poetry collections, she hopped into the brains of Black historical figures and wrote lyrical poetry about modern life from their specific points of view. Her Langston Hughes piece, “Everything Ain’t a Hashtag,” was iconic.

She’d fallen in instant love with Belinda years ago, when they were seated together at one of Cece’s exclusive parties. Raised by humble hairdresser parents in Silver Spring, Maryland, Belinda had attended Sidwell Friends School on scholarship during the Chelsea Clinton years and had been a dialect consultant for ten years’ worth of films featuring enslaved or Jim Crow–era Black people (suffice it to say, she was rarely out of work). As prestigious as her résumé was, her vibe was a charming, accessible blend of earth mama and around-the-way girl. She enjoyed Reiki healing and shamanic readings—but also raunchy memes and seducing young men who worked in the service industry. She’d just broken up with a Chilean stunner she’d met while he was passing out flyers in front of a MetroPCS store.

“Heyyy, Belinda.” Eva hugged her gently so as not to disturb her cluster of street-fair necklaces. Belinda’s signature box braids spilled out of her tribal-print headwrap, falling to her peach-shaped ass. She looked like a sexy doula.