Seven Days in June(83)

Over the years, Eva had trained herself not to expect anything from anyone, especially men. To not even ask or want. This, though? This she wanted.

Not want, she thought. Need.

“You can say no,” she said.

“You serious? I wouldn’t even know how to say no to you two.”

“Really?”

Shane’s face split into an irresistibly sunny smile. “Ladurée, on me.”

And Eva looked so elated that Audre did what every Generation Z kid was acculturated to do during memorable moments. She snapped a pic. (In portrait mode.) Without warning, she pushed them both together so they were side by side. Then she backed up and aimed her phone.

“This is a big deal, you reuniting like this. Does your high school class have a Facebook group? You gotta upload this pic.”

“No,” shouted Eva and Shane simultaneously.

“Wait, those two trees behind you are making a weird shadow. Their branches are all tangled up.” Audre gestured for them to move to the right.

They did. And then Shane flung an arm across Eva’s shoulders, Eva reached around his waist, and they cheesed.

“You know what I read?” asked Eva through her pasted-on smile. “A tree grows its branches out until it touches the tips of the next closest tree. And they’re linked forever. Because if they’re really close, their roots grow together. They’re so intertwined underneath that no matter what happens above ground, they stay connected.”

Shane pressed her a little closer to him. Under his breath, he asked, “Do you think our roots are connected?”

“More than,” she said.

Audre, witnessing their whispering, actually gagged. “Gross. Sorry. No, it’s cool. I’ll get used to this—it’s fine.”

Shane felt both grounded and light as air.

Feels like family.

Deep in his pocket, his phone continued to buzz, ignored. He was way too happy to deal with it.





SUNDAY





Chapter 25





DNA Ain’t No Joke




LADURéE ON WEST BROADWAY WAS THE SOHO OUTPOST OF ONE OF Paris’s oldest, most raised-pinky-finger tearooms. And it was an experience. Known for its patisseries and macarons, the restaurant was a silk-trimmed succession of adorable salons, each one more girly-cozy than the next. Eva and Audre always made a reservation in the curtained-off Pompadour Salon, an airy, bright sitting room with louche banquettes and twinkly golden chandeliers dangling from a blue-sky ceiling.

It felt like they were visiting Versailles. And in their carefully chosen ensembles, they looked like Parisian princesses, too. Tomboy princesses. Audre was rocking her lofty crown braid and a marigold off-the-shoulder sundress (with Doc Martens). And Eva felt impossibly romantic in a backless black crepe halter dress (with Comme des Gar?ons Converse).

There was something so decadent about stuffing your face with tarts and bacon while dressed like an influencer. Their brunch was always an event. But today, having a special guest star cast a shimmering quality over the day.

Eva felt so light and heady, she was almost levitating. Because of Shane, of course, but also because of the emergency pain shot she’d administered that morning. It had rained all night, and she’d gasped awake in agony. Pain did not go with her dress. Praise be for gummies and prefilled syringes.

Eva and Audre had shown up slightly early. Shane wasn’t there yet, which was perfect. Using her calligraphy skills, Audre had carefully created dainty little place cards and prix-fixe menus for each of them. It was a surprise, the perfect touch for what would be a perfect brunch.

They chatted while they waited.

“…and Ophelia keeps begging me to go to sleepaway camp with her, but I really don’t want to. Why do people camp? On principle, I don’t believe in sleeping outside.”

“You know I don’t get it, either.” Eva loathed camping and suspected that Audre had picked up that line from her. For a second, she was hit with vague guilt for discouraging her kid from trying new experiences.

Fuck it, she thought.

“Camping is arrogant,” said Eva. “The forest is filled with undomesticated wildlife out there living happy, peaceful lives. How dare we assume that we’re welcome in their home? It’s like if a bear broke into our apartment like, ‘It’d be a fun experience to live here for a week.’”

“Ophelia said I was being bougie,” said Audre, perusing the ornately designed menu. “Should I get truffled dauphine potatoes?”

“Bougie? Ophelia’s parents are multimillionaires!” She nibbled on a madeleine. “Wealthy Brooklynites always want you to think they’re struggling. Ophelia’s family drives a 2001 Ford Focus.”

“To their Bridgehampton mansion! I know, the irony!” Audre giggled, loving the grown-up gossip sesh with her mom.

“And yes, get the truffled potatoes,” Eva announced with supreme decadence. “You deserve it after coming in first place in your art competition.”

Eva was fiercely proud of her baby. Out of the entire upper school, seventh through twelfth grade, Audre’s portrait of Lizette had won the top prize of the year. Which meant she had landed an internship at the Brooklyn Museum the following school year.

“Did you really think it was that good?” Audre looked uncharacteristically bashful.