Seven Days in June(98)

Small-town life was delicious. And Eva had immersed herself in it, “from the roota to the toota,” as Aunt Da said. She’d discovered her people. There was no denying it.

But there was also no denying that there was no cake fair, no cochon de lait, no Friday-night dance at Tibette Bros. Meeting House (established 1909) powerful enough to make her forget him.

Shane was the memory she couldn’t escape. The bridge she’d never burn. The shiver she couldn’t shake. Maybe this was just her burden, to carry the weight of missing him forever. Because who knew when he’d feel stable enough to be with her in a complete way? The reality was he might never get there.

But honestly—did that matter? He might never be fully emotionally stable. And Eva certainly wasn’t the picture of glowing mental health herself. Maybe they’d always be disasters—but couldn’t they support each other and grow together? No one was perfect! And maybe that was what real, adult love was. Being fearless enough to hold each other close no matter how catastrophic the world became. Loving each other with enough ferocity to quell the fears of the past. Just fucking being there.

Eva sighed, utterly grateful to be taking this quick weekend trip. This constant internal debate was exhausting. Hopefully, the change of scenery would clear her mind.

It was the first time she’d gotten dressed up since she’d left Brooklyn, and she really went for it. Smoky eyes; loose, side-swept curls; and a long-sleeve black floral minidress. Eva showed up at Floataway Café, a buzzy Mediterranean restaurant, feeling cute—and very proud of herself, because she was fifteen minutes early, so as not to spoil the surprise. The restaurant was breathtaking. A renovated warehouse, the space was intimate and rustic, with low lights, soft twinkly music, and open windows ushering in the balmy night air. And not a soul was there.

Eva knew Belinda couldn’t make it, because she was on tour. And she wasn’t sure who else was invited, but they certainly hadn’t arrived yet, because except for the incredible-looking, slightly rockabilly waitstaff, the restaurant was empty.

A red-lipsticked hostess tapped her shoulder.

“Ma’am?” Her accent was honey. “Are you Eva Mercy?”

“Yes, I’m here for Cece Sinclair’s surprise party?”

“Got it,” she drawled. “Right this way, to the courtyard.”

“Thank you,” breathed Eva, fluffing her hair and following the woman across the empty restaurant. “Do you know if Cece rented out the whole place for the…”

Eva’s words dissolved into a gasp. The courtyard was bathed in almost darkness, set up to be a romantic, garden-style café with the starry sky as a canopy. Clusters of gardenias nestled in painted pots, wafting their heady, sultry fragrance into the night air.

The hostess led her to a tiny table impeccably set with crisp white table linens and charmingly mismatched plates.

“You’re a bit early,” said the hostess, pulling out Eva’s chair, “but the rest of the party’s on their way. Our manager just said he heard there was a fender bender on I-85. Everyone’s stuck in traffic, I bet. You must’ve just missed it!”

“Oh, makes sense.”

The hostess nodded and sauntered off. Eva took a sip of water, pulled out her phone. She thought about texting Cece but figured she’d be caught up in pre-party stress. It was always chaotic, those moments before a surprise.

Instead, she indulged in her guilty pleasure. In her weaker moments, she scrolled through her and Shane’s texts, reliving their relationship. It comforted her, remembering that it was real.

Listless, she plucked a gardenia from the vase on her table, sinking her nose into the velvety petals as she read.

It was real. She could almost hear him through the texts. Hear his slow, DC-inflected rasp, the way his voice dipped and slowed when it was late, too late to do anything except sleep, but they couldn’t stop learning and relearning everything about each other…

God. His voice.

“Eva.”

Eva whipped around. Shane. Standing at the entrance to the courtyard with the hostess, who winked at Eva, smiled, and raced back inside.

She had to be dreaming. Eva squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, he was there in front of her (looking like breezy, sexy perfection in a short-sleeve chambray button-down and black jeans). Before her brain could order her mouth to speak, he grabbed her by her shoulders, pulling her to her feet and into his strong arms.

“Shane!” she gasped, crushing the gardenia in her hand. “What…Why…are you…”

“Cece didn’t tell me you were going to be here!”

“Of course I’m here—it’s Ken’s birthday! How could she invite you and not tell me?”

“Ken’s birthday? I’m here for the Peachtree Book Festival.”

“I’ve never heard of a Peachtree Book Festival.”

“Me either! But what do I know? I never do any of that shit, so Cece asked me…”

“Cece asked you to come to Atlanta? To this restaurant? At eight p.m. tonight?”

Slowly, they released their grip and stood there, lightly embracing.

Hesitantly, Shane said, “She said it was for a panelist dinner.”

“But you don’t like people! How were you going to get through dinner?”

“My AA sponsor told me to push my limits socially. This is me growing!”