Seven Days in June by Tia Williams
Chapter 10
The Women
“PARDON ME?” GASPED CECE, HER LAVENDER ICED LATTE CLASPED TO HER chest. The condensation created a massive wet spot on her silk Gucci blouse.
No loss, the blouse was off-season. Besides, nothing mattered more than Eva’s unbelievable story.
Eva, Cece, and Belinda were crammed on a rustic love seat at Maman Soho, a café noted for its South of France vibe—that is, blue tiled floors, string lights, and quirkily pretty baristas in bangs and last night’s lip stain. Eva wasn’t up for an emergency lunch with the girls this morning, especially after Shane. But there was no arguing with those two.
“Shane was your teenage sweetheart?” gasped Belinda.
Eva slumped in the rustic love seat. Her two best friends had witnessed the exposing banter with Shane on stage at last night’s panel—there was no hiding from them. So she’d told them an abridged version of the truth. Which was that she and Shane had gone on a few dates in high school. Nothing major.
“Shane was nobody’s sweetheart,” she said. “He was trouble.”
“So, Shane was Shane,” said Cece. “And you were?”
“Not thinking clearly,” mumbled Eva. “Look, we just had this instant…thing. And then it burned out. No biggie.”
“Nope.” Belinda wagged her index finger at Eva, her Reiki-infused bracelets clinking. “That ain’t it. Details, please.”
“I barely remember any!” Eva hoped she sounded convincing. “It’s probably a blur for Shane, too.”
“It’s not a blur for him, ma’am,” said Belinda. “The way he was looking at you? My panties disintegrated.”
Eva sighed. She needed a hug, a nap, and a sleeve of Thin Mints. Not this.
“Eva, honey,” said Cece, with exaggerated calm. “Are you Eight?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said.
Cece raised a weaponized eyebrow.
“Fine. I’m Eight,” admitted Eva.
“And he’s Sebastian?”
After taking an extended sip of her latte, she said, “Sort of?”
Belinda yelped, fanning herself with her straw fedora.
“What I’m hearing you say,” started Cece grandly, “is that you and Shane Hall…my Shane Hall…who’s come up in countless of our book-world conversations over the years, conversations in which you’ve pretended not to know him…You two were teen lovers? Secret soul mates who were so inspired by each other that you’ve been communicating through your art across miles, decades, and years of impassioned memories?” She slammed her floral teacup down on the whitewashed table. “My heavenly word, how could you keep this telenovela a secret?”
A doe-eyed barista glanced over at them sharply. Eva tossed her a bright smile, then lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Because I barely survived Shane Hall. I barely survived myself. It was a dark time. My home life was traumatic. I was a chaotic, angry kid. Why reminisce?”
“Actually, this explains a lot about who you were when we met,” noted Cece. “Totally feral. Remember when that bartender called you ‘baby’? You stubbed your cigarette out on his hand! And said, ‘Take my order or kiss my ass, your choice.’”
“No, it was ‘Take my order or suck my dick,’” corrected Eva.
Belinda snorted. “So, why did you break up?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Eva waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve lived entire lifetimes since then.”
“This is a word.” Belinda crossed her legs, her gauzy palazzo pants billowing. “Men don’t define our journey. It’s about honoring our queendom. Vibrating at our divine plane.”
Cece rolled her eyes. “Relax, Badu.”
“When I think about it, which I never do,” started Eva, “I’m just shocked we got so intense so fast.”
“I felt passion like that once,” Belinda mused. “Remember Kai, the bouncer from that Bushwick hookah spot? He fucked the soul out of me one evening, and I turned over and wrote a sonnet called ‘Skyscrapers Penetrating the Night Sky.’”
“It ran in the Paris Review!” said Eva. “I admire your ability to write about penises so lyrically. It’s a tricky body part to describe. One wrong adjective, and it’s a tumor.”
Belinda nudged Cece. “You ever experienced wild love?”
“Hmm.” She swirled her straw in her latte. “I’d die for my hairdresser. We’ve all seen what Lionel does with 4C hair.”
“You’d die for Lionel,” said Eva, “but not your husband of twenty years?”
Cece had known her terminally reserved plastic-surgeon husband, Ken, since preschool. His appearance suggested that God had struggled to remember what Billy Dee Williams looked like in Mahogany, and had almost gotten it right. They were a perfect match. Spelman. Morehouse. AKA. Alpha. Their grandfathers had been best friends at Howard, class of ’46. What they lacked in passion, they made up for in obviousness.
“I adore Ken, but I’m not built for romantic passion. Men are such children. I just read an article about mainland China’s female shortage. Grown men are living alone in filthy houses and dying prematurely because there’s no women to make their doctor’s appointments.”
“Speaking of doctors,” said Belinda, “my gyno just performed a goddess ritual on my vagina. She steamed it, saged it, and then spoke wisdom into my crotch.”
“I wonder if my vagina’s wise,” mused Cece.
“Mine’s dumb as fuck, judging from her choices,” said Belinda.
Am I really laying my burdens at the feet of these Muppets?Eva wondered.
“I should go,” she said. But she just sat there, her face cloudy.
Belinda and Cece exchanged glances. There was more to Eva’s story. And they knew they’d never hear it.
These three knew each other’s pizza order at Roberta’s, shoe sizes, and favorite Spotify playlists. But Cece and Belinda knew nothing about Eva’s pre-Brooklyn life. She’d alluded to a nomadic childhood. But actual details? Throwback Thursday content? Forget it. She never traveled home for holidays. Where was home, even? Belinda and Cece didn’t know, but they respected Eva’s privacy. Mysterious pasts weren’t unusual for transplanted New Yorkers. Moving to New York was about reinvention. If you didn’t want that, you stayed in Kenosha, Wisconsin.
Once you crossed the Verrazzano Bridge, you were free to shed skin. The Dallas trust fundie became a Red Hook hipster. The Tennessee hillbilly became a well-married tastemaker. In New York, you were who you said you were.
Eva was private. But she was clearly struggling.
Cece pulled Eva into an embrace. Belinda hugged them both. Nearby, a PhD student glanced up from her laptop and snapped a pic for Instagram Stories (#Heartwarming #GirlPower #NeverthelessShePersisted).
“Back then, I felt defective,” she said, gently disentangling herself. “Like an alien. I was in so much pain, it burned through everything—my thoughts, my personality, my emotions, everything. Until Shane.”
“You met another alien,” surmised Cece.
“And the magic’s still there! What’s his sign?” Belinda googled his birthday on her phone.
“We never had magic,” lied Eva, swallowing a pain pill dry. “Just hormones. Honestly, you shouldn’t be allowed to have orgasms like that before you’re twenty-one. It gives you brain damage.”
“March thirtieth.” Belinda grimaced. “Damn, he’s an Aries. The thots of the zodiac.”
“Run,” advised Cece.
“Actually, you might need exposure therapy,” mused Belinda, nibbling on Eva’s untouched scone. “Spend a lot of time with him, until you’ve demystified his memory. Like when you eat fifteen doughnuts in one sitting to cure your sugar addiction.”
“But I don’t have time to eat Shane!” moaned Eva. “Today alone, I have a meeting with a potential director and a parent-teacher conference…”
“And a book due to my inbox on Monday,” reminded Cece.
“Oh. Well, prose before bros,” cosigned Belinda.
With that, Eva reached for her bag. She was feeling floaty and tingly from the painkillers, her brain-throb ebbing to a gentle wave. “Love y’all. If I survive this day, I’ll text later.”
Eva soon found herself stationed between two dynamic women in a Soho landmark again. But this time, it was at Crosby Street Hotel, and with Sidney Grace, Cursed producer, and Dani Acosta, the buzzy director interested in filming it.
Set back on a quiet cobbled street, the hotel lobby was like a surreal secret garden—where kooky dog sculptures and rococo chairs coexisted with lavish greenery. What better place to discuss bringing Eva’s adult fairy tale to life?
And it was going shockingly well, considering that Eva was midcrisis. In the eight months since Sidney had bought the film rights, a stream of big-name directors had rejected her proposal. Dani Acosta was Eva’s final hope. Her most recent indie, The Lady Came to Play, was a Toronto International Film Festival smash about a violinist haunted by a ghost who makes invisible love to her during performances. Dani was wearing navy lipstick and a sequined tank—and the only thing surpassing her enthusiasm for Cursed was Eva’s enthusiasm for her.
“…and I see lushly ominous visuals with erotic undertones—you get me?” Dani had been raised in East Harlem, and her voice had sumptuous Nuyorican flavor.
“Like Bram Stoker’s Dracula!” gasped Eva.
Drunk on creative synergy, Dani raised her hands to the roof, where a human-head-shaped chandelier hovered. “We’re kindred, you and me.”
“Literally.” Sidney delivered “literally” the same way she would’ve said, Sorry for your loss. She’d attended LA schools populated by Ritchies and Joneses, and now she had a deadpan vocal-fry pitch that never varied. The biracial daughter of an Earth, Wind & Fire guitarist and a sitcom actress, she was quite connected—and a lot savvier than she let on. At twenty-seven, she’d already produced two Netflix documentaries.
Sidney was desperate to produce a feature film. Dani was desperate to prove she wasn’t a one-hit wonder. And Eva was just desperate.
“Dani, I saw The Lady Came to Play twice,” said Eva. “What inspired the invisible lover?”
“I made love to a ghost,” whispered Dani. “I was vacationing at this bizarre ancient hotel in Istanbul. One night, a spirit whooshed under my blankets, and we had mystical intercourse. Ghostly hands all over me.”
“Werk.” Sidney had no patience for this budding girl-crush. What about production details? Budgets, locations, talent.
“Who was the ghost?” Eva was wide-eyed.
“Turns out, I was hallucinating from an intense Turkish flu,” laughed Dani. “My own hands were ravishing me!”
Eva giggled. “I’ve lost my touch. Pardon the pun.”
“I like you.” Dani leaned forward, coffee-brown eyes boring into Eva’s. “And I like your ballsy witch. Let’s make magic.”
Eva glanced at Sidney, who gave a deadpan nod.
“Dani Acosta,” announced Eva, “I think you’re the perfect director for Cursed.”
“Saaame,” drawled Sidney, who’d made the decision forty minutes ago. “Let’s talk casting. Newbies? Zendaya? Those Dear White People cuties?”
“I’m thinking actual white people,” said Dani.
“Actual what now?” asked Eva.
“To get real distribution and financing, this film needs white characters.”
“But…they’re Black,” sputtered Eva, suspended between disbelief and confusion.
“They’re a fantasy,” retorted Dani.
“Wakanda’s a fantasy, but it’s in Africa!”
“Wakanda has Marvel power behind it,” Dani reminded her. “Two Black leads will handicap Cursed’s potential. You don’t want a Black film; you want a big film. I see Sebastian as the Spider-Man kid, Tom Holland? And Kendall Jenner playing Gia.”
Eva was aghast. “She can barely play herself. Have you seen her on a runway? It’s like she’s walking the plank!”
She was in a cold-sweat panic. Black people existed and thrived in all spaces, realms, worlds. And Eva wrote Gia and Sebastian so well that readers of all races took them at face value. A triumph in any genre.
Cursedwas Eva’s version of protest lit. Whitewashing her characters would erase her career.
“Vampires and witches are already ‘other,’” reasoned Dani. “If they’re also Black, they’re too niche. Imagine finding an audience for a film about a Taiwanese werewolf and fairy.”
“But I’d watch that!” Eva’s phone buzzed on her lap, cutting off her next thought. It was a text from Sidney.
BE SMART. Dani’s our last non-D-list option. We’ll work out kinks later. Say yes.
“Yes,” said Eva, heart sinking. “Kendall. Spider-Man. Genius.”
Minutes later, she was on the subway, bound for Audre’s parent-teacher conference in Brooklyn. Her heart was throbbing in her temples. How had she allowed that meeting to careen so far out of her control? Where was her integrity? Maybe she didn’t have any. Only a sellout would bleach and brighten her fictional babies for a paycheck. No. The very idea was a searing humiliation. Out of self-preservation, Eva banished it to the back of her mind—she couldn’t break down now; there was no time.
At least Audre was at the top of her class. Nothing to worry about there.
And so she walked into Cheshire Prep all easy breezy. Here, if nowhere else, she knew everything was right with the world. She strode the hallways of the sprawling Victorian mansion with the smugness of a woman whose daughter was the queen of seventh grade.
Eva was secretly proud of Audre’s popularity. Audre was a leader in a school full of overachieving, hypercompetitive alphas from two-parent homes with old family money. It took confidence to own that crowd. And Audre did it by being friendly and empathetic and not an asshole.
My golden child, thought Eva, sweeping into Head of School Bridget O’Brien’s office. With a bright smile, she kissed her daughter’s cheek and sat next to her at Bridget’s desk. The office was a nod to Cheshire Prep’s 150-year history, with accents like 1920s club chairs and Edwardian gas lamps.
Bridget herself was also a bit of a throwback. Tall and svelte, the fifty-five-year-old gave off Hitchcock-blonde vibes, with her back-combed platinum bob and belted Burberry dresses. She had two interests: lasering her crow’s-feet and ensuring that Cheshire Prep became NYC’s top private school before she retired in 2021. Thus, she favored students who won titles.
Audre had earned all-state gold medals from debate-team championships, plus first place at visual-arts regionals. She was so golden, Eva had a standing invite to Bridget’s annual holiday dinner party at her Cobble Hill town house.
“Audre’s suspended,” said Bridget.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m suspended,” whispered Audre.
“I heard her!” snapped Eva, who was only now noticing the swollen redness around Audre’s eyes. And Eva’s cameo ring, on her left hand. Shocked, she glanced down at her naked finger. That morning had been so hectic, she hadn’t realized she wasn’t wearing it.
Eva gaped at Audre. “What did you do?”
Audre’s eyes rolled up to the gold filigree ceiling. As if Eva’s question, rather than getting herself kicked out of school, was the true indignity.
“Earlier in the year, we spoke to you about Audre’s peer-counseling Snapchat sessions.” Bridget’s airy voice only just disguised her blue-collar Boston-Irish roots. Until her freshman year at Vassar, she’d spoken like the entire cast of The Departed.
“But she stopped making them,” Eva inserted hurriedly.
“She did, and Snapchat videos disappear after twenty-four hours. But a screenshot lastsforever.” Bridget unearthed a file from her desk drawer. “A few weeks ago, Audre posted a video of her session with Clementine Logan.”
“Clementine Logan.” Eva feared where this was going. “Her mom’s Carrie Logan, the dean of students?”
“Bingo,” sighed Bridget. She slid a printout across her desk to Audre. “Clementine made an alarming confession about her mother on the video. A student took a screenshot, created a meme, and it’s been circulating all week.”
Eva glanced at the printout of the meme. In it, Clementine was mid-wail with tear-streaked cheeks. The image was blurry, but the caption wasn’t:
TFW your mom’s getting her back blown out by your English teacher.
Eva’s jaw dropped open. Audre sniffled.
Bridget’s Botox-frozen brows struggled to furrow. “TFW means—”
“That feeling when,” said Eva. “I know.”
“Mom has 24K Instagram followers.” Audre’s voice was shaky but proud. “She’s familiar with social-media linguistics.”
Bridget looked relieved that she wouldn’t need to translate “back blown out.”
“So, the English teacher isn’t her husband?” asked Eva haltingly. “Jesus, Audre.”
“I posted it way before you made me stop!” she wailed, her buns quivering. “And I had no idea Clementine Logan’s mom was a cheater!”
“Mr. Galbraith, the English teacher, has been let go,” announced Bridget.
“Bridget, I apologize. But Audre never meant to hurt anyone.”
“Perhaps, but she has detention for the rest of the week.” Bridget smoothed her bulletproof do with French-manicured fingertips. “And the honors board is undecided about inviting her back next year.”
A miserable groan escaped Audre’s throat. Eva looked over at her beloved baby, the spawn of her loins, and wanted to choke her within an inch of her life.
“Audre, can you wait outside for a moment?” managed Eva.
Thrilled to be dismissed, Audre escaped to the hallway.
Bridget waited three seconds before locking the door. Then she grabbed a pack of Parliaments from her purse, opened a massive window, and lit up. After a lung-expanding drag, her posture relaxed.
Only in front of select parents did Bridget drop her classy veneer and get raw.
“Swear to Christ, Eva,” she muttered on an exhale, “I don’t need this psychosexual melodrama right before I retire.”
Eva met her at the window. “This was a youthful error. How can I fix it?”
She grabbed her forearm, willing Bridget to remember how delightful she’d been at her holiday dinner.
Bridget peered down at Eva with her Windex-colored eyes. When she spoke, she sounded exactly like who she was: the daughter of a man who, every evening of her childhood, ran numbers in their basement with a crew of local heavies while wearing a T-shirt proclaiming, I CAME HERE TO FIGHT OR FUCK & I DON’T SEE YOUR SISTER.
“You tell me.”
Bridget’s skin was flawless thanks to free Restylane injections from Dr. Reece Nguyen—offered as collateral to keep his ninth grader in school after her Forever 21 shoplifting scandal. And Bridget’s enormous hair was freshly styled thanks to free visits to Owen Blandi Salon—offered in exchange for Bridget allowing Owen’s permanently vaped-out son to graduate.
Bridget O’Brien could be bought. But what did Eva have to sell?
“What do you need?” asked Eva.
“Know any English-lit teachers?” she asked, taking a drag.
“I don’t think so, but…”
“Eva, this scandal can’t be my legacy. I need to bury it with a new-teacher announcement. Fast. Find a suitable replacement for Mr. Galbraith, and Audre has a spot in eighth grade.”
Eva loathed being strong-armed. Bridget was a crook, but Eva had been hustling her whole life. But this was about her baby. Audre couldn’t get expelled. It took great restraint not to slip into Genevieve mode, telling this bitch to fuck completely off.
“Give me a couple days,” spat Eva, spinning on her heel. With her hand on the doorknob, she said, “You really are so corrupt, Bridget.”
“This is your daughter’s academic career,” Bridget said, stubbing out her cigarette on the windowsill. “I’ve done worse for less.”
“But enough about your helmet hair,” Eva clapped back. Then she slammed the door so hard the hinges shook.
Eva found Audre leaning against a wall, eyes squeezed shut. Her Vans were placed shoulder-width apart, and she was breathing steadily in and out. Meditating. Eva knew it.
“Audre Zora Toni Mercy-Moore.”
Audre’s eyes flew open, and then she crashed into Eva, enveloping her in a one-sided embrace. “Mommy, I’m so sorry.”
“I try to be the best mom I can be.” Eva was speaking more to herself than to Audre. “How is my daughter facing suspension? How?”
“I’m sorry!” stage-whispered Audre.
Sorry don’t fix the lamp, bé, she heard her mother say.
Get out of my head!
Eva grabbed Audre’s forearm and marched her to a private alcove by the girls’ bathroom. She spun her around so they faced each other. “I’m pretty sure you broke up a marriage. Do you get the ramifications of that?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “But husbands cheat all the time with no repercussions. In a way, it’s like I’m dismantling the patriarchy?”
“Oh, grow up. This isn’t about the patriarchy.”
“You say everything’s about the patriarchy!” Audre began to weep. Her tears left blotchy streaks in her cotton-candy-pink blush (the only makeup she was allowed to wear). She looked so young, like when she was a first grader playing in Eva’s makeup.
“Do you realize that I’ll have to sell my fucking soul to keep you enrolled?”
Nodding and sobbing, Audre saw a classmate walk down the hall—and quickly shielded her eyes with her hand.
“All I ask,” reasoned Eva, “is that you kill it in school, excel in art, stay kind, and cuddle with me during Stranger Things. Ruining your academic career does not fit into this scenario.”
Audre’s tear-shiny eyes narrowed into slits. With head-spinning quickness, she went from sad to seething.
“Maybe I want more than good grades and Stranger Things,” she blurted out. “I want to be a butterfly! Fly around, following my heart. Guess what? I don’t even love art. I do it ’cause I’m awesome at it and it’s your dream for me. My dream is to be a celebrity therapist. Possibly with a nail-salon franchise. Which you’ve never supported, BTW.”
“You’ve never mentioned a nail franchise!”
“Well, I’ve thought about it.” Audre took a step away from Eva, her fists on her hips. “Look, I messed up. Noted. I’m not perfect, like you.”
Eva threw her hands up. “You know I’m not perfect.”
“You are! Because you don’t live. You just write books you hate, and obsess over me. You don’t have boyfriends or travel or do fun stuff or want anything more than you’ve got.” She took a breath. “You write about love, but you won’t go get it. You don’t want anything.”
Eva’s hurt was instant and excruciating. “How…dare you psychoanalyze me?”
Emboldened by her speech, she went further. “Quick question. Why did Daddy leave? Was he not perfect enough for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not a person,” said Audre, with disdain. “You’re a robot.”
And then the only thing between them was endless, temple-throbbing silence. Another kid came barreling down the hallway. This time Audre turned away from her mom, waved, and smiled. But when she faced Eva and saw her stunned expression, she wilted. Her bravado gone.
“You done?”
Audre nodded, instantly sorry.
“You’re right,” said Eva, voice trembling. “I’m a robot. A robot who’s set up your life so you have the freedom to try new things and make messes and still have a life to come back to. I’m the reason you get to be a butterfly, you ungrateful…tween.”
Hot tears stung her eyes. No. She had to keep her cool.
“And another thing!” yelped Eva, decidedly not keeping her cool. “When would I date? With what time, energy? I give it all to you, kid. There’s nothing left over for anyone else! Think about that the next time you fuck up and then have the unbelievably reckless audacity to critique my life choices.”
“Mommy, I’m—”
“Sorry. I know,” Eva spat. “I’m on deadline. I gotta go,” she said, storming off. Abruptly, she paused. “And gimme my ring,” she said, slipping it off Audre’s finger.
With that, she left her precious child standing alone in the storied hallways of Cheshire Prep.
Once she was outside on the blazing-hot, brownstone-lined Park Slope street, she sank down onto the school steps. She was in too much pain to walk home. So she swallowed a pain pill and brooded.
Eva did want things. She wanted the world for her daughter. She wanted to see her characters on the big screen, racially intact. And deep down—fathoms deep, where she buried her weightiest wants—she wanted to go to Louisiana and research her dream book. The one that might turn her and Audre’s life upside down. The one uncovering the truth about her bloodline, the incorrigibly untamed, dangerously wild Mercier women.
Eva wanted things. She’d just forgotten how to get them.
She used to be brazen. Where was that girl who’d run away from her mother, to Shane, to Princeton, and then to New York? Who was that girl?
There was only one person who remembered. And he’d been texting her since she’d fled the diner.
With trembling hands, she pulled her phone out of her purse.
Today, 11:15 AMS.H.
Call me.
Today, 11:49 AMS.H.
Please, Genevieve.
Today, 12:40 PMS.H.
Just wanna make sure you’re okay. Please.
Today, 2:10 PMS.H.
Okay, I have no right to know anything about you anymore.
Today, 2:33 PMS.H.
Fuck it, yes I do.
Today, 2:35 PMS.H.
I’m staying in the West Village. 81 Horatio Street. I’ll be here till Sunday. Please come, if you want to talk. Any day, any time. But if you don’t, I get it. And I’ll leave and never bother you again. Just know that I wish you the most brilliant, weird, and wonderful things, every day of the world.
Eva stared at her phone. Like if she looked hard enough at it, it would burst into flames. And she’d be rid of him forever.
Brilliant, weird, and wonderful.When was the last time she’d experienced any of those things? She didn’t know.
But she did know she’d do anything for Audre.
She also knew that Genevieve had always lurked on the outskirts of her personality—muted by motherhood, career, self-preservation, and common sense, but there. Eva was older, but the same bones were under her skin. The same flame, dulled to an ember, waiting for a spark to set her ablaze again.
And most importantly? She knew an English teacher.