Seven Days in June(6)

Troy was too polite to end it. So Eva liberated him. Audre was nineteen months old; she was twenty-two.

Troy went on to be blissfully happy with his second wife, a yogi named Athena Marigold. They used words like “paleo” and “artisanal” and lived in Santa Monica, where Audre spent her summers. Next Sunday, she was flying out to “Dadifornia” (the name Audre gave her West Coast trips), where Troy excelled as a carefree summertime dad.

But tricky stuff? An almost man sneaking into his baby’s room? Not his territory.

Eva staggered to her couch. She’d never been able to think clearly with jeans on, so she wriggled out of them. Sitting there in Wonder Woman panties, she googled TWEEN DISCIPLINE TIPS on her phone. The top article suggested a “behavior contract.” She had neither the legal prowess nor the energy to draw up a contract! Huffing, she tossed her phone aside and clicked on the Apple TV. When life got too challenging, she watched Insecure.

“Mommy?”

She looked up, and there was Audre, framed by a 120-year-old arched entryway. Her face was puffy and tear streaked. She’d added a black shawl and oversized Ray-Bans to her outfit.

Eva tried to look stern. Tough work without pants.

“Audre, what are you wearing?”

“This is my Upscale Sadness outfit.”

“Nailed it,” Eva admitted.

Audre cleared her throat. “Therapy is my calling. But I should’ve closed my practice when you told me to. I’m sorry for that and for having Coco-Jean’s brother over. Though it’s heterotypical of you to assume that just ’cause he’s a boy we’re being…weird.”

Heterotypical. Brooklyn private schools produced ultra-progressive students. They protested abortion bans and marched for gun control. Last month, Audre’s seventh-grade class carried buckets of water two miles across Prospect Park to empathize with the plight of sub-Saharan women.

The upside? A top-notch liberal education. The downside? Kids who struggled to divide decimals or name a state capital.

“Honey, can you give me a sec?” Eva sighed, shutting her eyes. “I just need to think.”

Audre knew that “think” meant “rest her head,” and she sulked back into her room. Watching her through one open eye, Eva felt a wistful pang. Audre had been the dreamiest, most delightful kid. Now she was an eye roll shaped like a human. Thirteen was coming, and who knew what horrors it’d bring? She’d sneak out, or learn to lie, or discover weed. Not Eva’s, though, which was well hidden in her dildo drawer.

Just then, her phone buzzed. It was Cece Sinclair, Eva’s best friend and Parker + Rowe Publishing’s most celebrated book editor.

Eva answered with a tortured “Whaaaaat?”

“You’re alive!”

“According to my Fitbit, I’ve been deceased for weeks.”

“You’re in there. I hear Issa Rae through the phone. I’m outside—I’ll let myself in.”

Cece swept through the door seconds later. She was overwhelming in every way—six feet tall, creamy cocoa skin, bleached-blond coils. A product of Spelman, Vineyard summers, and white-gloved cotillions with Talented Tenth debs, she dressed exclusively in vintage Halston and always appeared to have leapt off a 1978 Vogue cover. Or at least to be someone who knew Pat Cleveland.

She did, actually. Cece knew everyone. At forty-five, she’d long been one of the industry’s most notorious editors, but her unofficial title was Social Queen of Black Literati. She collected authors, nurtured them, and whispered plot advice over cocktails—and her membership-only book/art/film-world parties were legendary. Eva had quickly discovered all of this after she’d won the short-story contest and Cece had become her editor.

During their introductory lunch on the Princeton campus, Cece took one look at the teen’s “haunted doe eyes and chaotic coffee-shop-poetess curls” (a description she oft repeated), and her soul screamed, Project!

Before Eva knew it, she had a doting big sister. Cece helped her move to Brooklyn, quit her vices, and learn the art of curl maintenance—and introduced her to a social circle of happening young writers.

Cece was bossy as hell, but she’d earned it. There’d be no Eva without her.

Humming, the glamazon disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a glass of pinot grigio and the ice pack Eva kept in the freezer. Sitting beside her, Cece slipped the frosty pack atop Eva’s head with a flourish, as if it were a crown.

Cece was one of the few people who really knew about Eva’s condition, and she helped out however she could.

“I’m here,” she announced grandly, “to discuss the State of the Black Author panel.”

“The Brooklyn Museum event you’re moderating tomorrow night? Belinda’s a panelist, right?” Celebrated poet Belinda Love was their close friend.

“Auntie Cece!” Audre appeared again, wearing her third costume change: a neon unicorn onesie.

“Audre-Bear! I’ve been meaning to text you for stress-management advice. My kitchen renovation is taking such a toll.”

Audre plopped down on Cece’s lap. “Try chocolate meditation. You stick a Hershey’s Kiss in your mouth and sit quietly, letting it melt. No chewing. It’s about mindfulness.”

“I’ve no doubt, doll, but is there a sugar-free option?”