Seven Days in June(75)

Today, 10:28 AM


SHANE: You going to Cece’s?

EVA: I have to, she tricked me.

SHANE: Then I’m going, too. I fucking miss you.

EVA: You saw me this morning. ??

SHANE: I’m in withdrawal.

EVA: Same x1000.

SHANE: How do we act, in public?

EVA: Normal!

SHANE: But what’s our normal? Naked?

EVA: Good point. This is weird.

SHANE: We’ll figure it out.

EVA: You know she threw this party to get the tea on us, right?

SHANE: Fucking Cece. You gonna tell her?

EVA: I won’t have to. She’ll know.



And Cece did know, the second she laid eyes on Eva. She was dripping with sex; it was obvious. Eva couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light. So unguarded! Shane had fucked away all her defenses. And now she was a mushball. Giddy. Aglow. Swooning from happiness in plain view of forty-five gossipy Blacks. But she didn’t care. Around 3:30 a.m. (after the gelatogasm), she’d had an epiphany.

Something had been unlocked in her. For so long and in so many ways, Eva had been holding herself back. Now she wanted to figure out who she was—and then be her, delight in her. Delight in everything! Have an actual life and live it! She vowed to herself to be honest—with herself and with everyone. In pain? Admit it. In love? Claim it. Life was too short to be anything but herself.

Listen to me, she thought. I get one slice of dick and turn into a wide-eyed Disney princess.

She didn’t realize that she’d laughed out loud until Belinda and Cece looked at her with eyebrows raised. They were struggling to maintain a conversation with Belinda’s latest service-industry boy toy. She’d traded in her Trader Joe’s dude for Cain, a copper-skinned snack she’d hired from TaskRabbit to build her IKEA dresser.

Cain was twenty-four, stocky, sexy—and he spoke only in one-word responses.

“So,” started Cece, resplendent in a fitted fuchsia pantsuit and white teddy, “it’s a fun party, right?”

“Vibes,” Cain said, nodding.

“Cain, that’s such a cool name,” said Eva. “Is it biblical?”

“Facts,” he said.

“Do you have a brother named Abel?” Eva giggled at her own joke. “I bet you hear that all the time.”

“Word,” said Cain.

“You know, I’ve never met a Cain or an Abel,” mused Cece.

“The Weeknd’s real name is Abel,” said Belinda.

“Is your brother the Weeknd?” Eva asked Cain. “If so, I have some notes about his hair.”

“Clownin’,” said Cain, chuckling.

Belinda quickly steered the conversation toward something he could talk about.

“Babe,” she said, “tell them about your blossoming deejay business!”

“Datshitfiyah,” said Cain.

With that, he’d officially worn out his welcome.

“Babe, go get me another Aperol spritz.” Belinda—who was slaying in a cropped white halter top, a floral maxiskirt, and long box braids—patted Cain’s ass and sent him on his way.

“Wowwww,” said Eva, stifling a giggle.

“Okay, but did you see how fine he is?” whispered Belinda. “And he’s just level one of my summertime thot journey.”

As if on cue, the deejay spun a Travis Scott track into “Hot Girl Summer.” The crowd let out a collective “Ayyy” and champagne glasses went up.

These partygoers hadn’t been the cool kids growing up. They’d spent their adolescence buried in art books, scrawling poems into steno pads during recess, living full stories in their heads. Distracted by their artistic micro-obsessions, many forgot to learn how to engage with the world. They were too busy studying life, storing up their notes to use later in a novel, a song, a script, a painting. They were observers, not joiners.

As adults, they made up for lost time. They were now a bunch of celebrated, critically acclaimed thirty-something artists who behaved like tenth graders. They gossiped like crazy, made out at house parties, and made awkward, drunken decisions. Exhibit A: across the room, Khalil, the inescapable mansplainer from the Brooklyn Museum panel, was dry-humping a potted plant.

Cece grabbed her husband, Ken, by the arm. He was midconversation with a famed art-world titan. “Honey! See that man over there dressed like Carlton Banks? Please cut him off.”

Ken, who appeared to be completely asleep behind his pleasant expression, kissed the titan on the cheek and hurried off.

“Children are downstairs,” huffed Cece. “What’s wrong with Khalil?”

Belinda snorted. “How much time you got?”

“Actually, not much, because I have to make the hostess rounds,” said Cece. “So, while I’m here, madam”—she pointed her martini glass at Eva—“I suggest you explain that luminous glow. Did I really need to orchestrate a whole-ass party to get an explanation?”

Eva bit her lip and shrugged.

“I will not stand for this mysterious shit,” said Belinda. “Stop being such a Scorpio with an Aries moon. What happened this week? You go missing for days and then show up here looking like you got hit by the dick truck?”

“Who got hit by the dick truck?” asked a famed bookfluencer with two million Instagram followers and an ear for gossip. She was shimmying by on her way to pluck shrimp off a tray.