Seven Days in June(88)

“Mom, you used to have an old scrapbook. Really old. The one with the photo corners framing black-and-white pics? I need to see photos of grandma and great-grandma. I don’t care how faded they are.” Lizette had let her look at the album only a couple of times. “Just…can you email anything you have? Like, now?”

Lizette fell quiet for a moment. Eva wondered what she was doing right then. What her house looked like. What she was wearing. “You always loved hearing stories about Clo and co.”

“I loved hearing you tell stories. You’re good at it.”

“Well, where do you think you get it from?” Eva could hear the smile in her voice. “You ain’t the only one’s colorful.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“DNA ain’t no joke, I’ll tell you what.” Lizette yawned. “I’ll email you now. Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“You’re eternally welcome, bè.”

Within minutes, five scans popped into Eva’s inbox. She opened them, fast—and then stopped breathing for a moment. What she saw leveled her.

The first pic was her great-grandmother Delphine. It must’ve been Delphine, because she looked to be in her early twenties, 1922 was scrawled on the corner of the photo, and she was olive-skinned enough to pass for Fauxtalian. She was perched on the hood of an ancient Ford, her bee-stung lips and flapper cloche hat signifying wealth. But the car and the fancy getup receded into the background as Eva immediately zeroed in on her delicate hands crossed on her lap.

Her delicate hands and her cameo ring.

The second photo was Grandma Clo. A bright-eyed beauty wearing a 1940s-era victory-rolled hairstyle and a wise-beyond-her-years expression. And the cameo ring on her fuck-you finger.

The third photo was Marie-Therese “Lizette” Mercier herself. It was a pageant shot—probably from the late seventies, considering the Sister Sledge hair. Her mom was wearing a winner’s cape, a triumphant smile, and the cameo ring.

Eva’s ring wasn’t some suitor’s gift to her mom. It had been passed down for generations, infused with the love, fury, and passion of these women. Her women. Her people. And their stories, like the ring, were now hers.

And finally, she knew what to write.





Chapter 26





Seven Days in June




THE LITTIE AWARDS WERE, IN A WORD, EXTRA. IT WAS THE BLACK BOOK world’s big chance to celebrate itself. And since people born of the African diaspora tended to turn “celebrating themselves” into an art form, the festivities were lavish.

Also, it was open to the public for the first time and being streamed live on BET.com. The sponsors included Target, C?roc, Essence, Nike, and Carol’s Daughter. An exciting professional moment, to be sure, but Eva was adrift in a sea of conflicting feelings. Every feeling, it seemed. After writing (and sobbing and writing and sobbing) for hours, she was more than a bit delirious. Dizzy from pain. Loopy from meds. Fiercely proud of what she’d written. Desperate for waffles. Itchy from Spanx. And then, of course, there was her heart.

Eva was heartsick. She’d written through it, because she was a fucking pro. But the helpless, searing ache in her heart was too big. Ignoring it was useless. She refused to let it take over.

Because even bigger than her sadness was her determination. She was at the Litties, not just as a nominated author but as a woman on a mission. With every word she’d written, her purpose had become clearer than ever. Eva Mercy was focused on the future, her next step, and no one (not Shane, not even herself) was going to rattle her.

This new Eva, the free Eva, was tired of being rattled by life. How long had she lived being too terrified to show her real self? There was power in showing the messiness of her life and what it took to hold it together. This week had liberated her. And whether she liked it or not, Shane had a lot to do with it.

She felt free with him.

Goddamn him, she thought to herself, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing she could banish his ridiculously lovely face from her brain.

This isn’t about him. It’s about me. Occupying all the space I need to. Standing tall in exactly who the hell I am. A damned good mom and writer with a terrible disability who overcomes it every day and whose best work is ahead of her and whose ass is perched for the gawds in her dress.

Eva was wearing a vintage Alexander McQueen number she’d borrowed from Cece. The long-sleeve, sharp-shouldered leather minidress was a badass goth purple (“very Rihanna circa ‘Disturbia’!” said Cece). And because she truly was committed to being her authentic self, she wore it with platinum door-knocker earrings and Stan Smith sneakers.

The outfit was symbolic. Gia’s signature color was purple. Sebastian’s fangs were platinum. And tonight, she was saying goodbye to them both.

But for now, she was sitting at a round table in the dazzling ballroom of Cipriani Wall Street. The space was already dramatic, with its grand, cathedral-like interior and mile-high ceilings—and tonight, it was all gussied up in Harlem Renaissance drag. The forty author tables were decked out with sumptuous silver-and-black linens and Jazz Age–inspired centerpieces—massive crystal champagne glasses overflowing with chunky strings of pearls. Lights were low, and a spotlight shone “Black Literary Excellence Awards 2019” on the dance floor. The all-female R&B band was clad in flapper gowns (the look slightly clashed with its “upscale Black barbecue” set list, which included uptempo hits by Frankie Beverly and Maze, Mary J. Blige, Teena Marie, Kool and the Gang, and several artists produced by Teddy Riley). In the middle of it all was a small stage with an art deco podium.