Seven Days in June by Tia Williams

Chapter 22

Word Traveled Fast

Happy Saturday, gorgeous people! You’re cordially invited to my abode today at 1pm. Bring nothing but your dazzling personalities and most scandalous industry gossip. As usual, this is a private affair. No phones. But! Since this is a day party—parents, feel free to bring your kiddos. I’m designating the downstairs guest bedroom a kiddie wonderland, catered by Dylan’s Candy Bar and Shake Shack. (One thing: I do adore your children, but please discourage them from touching the chintz chinoiserie settee in the lounge. It was a wedding gift from my husband’s godmother, Diahann Carroll.) See you shortly!

EXACTLY NONE OF THE INVITED AUTHORS, VISUAL ARTISTS, WEB WHIZZES, filmmakers, and fashion designers on Cece’s list were surprised that the invite came a mere eight hours before the party started. That was her tradition—and it kept everyone on their toes. “Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready” was one of her many mottoes.

Her penthouse was littered with modern art, sharp corners, and priceless objets d’art, but it was also a true indoor-outdoor space, with a massive terrace overrun with greenery, and bathroom windows looking out onto the Lower Manhattan skyline. Cece had worked hard with interior designer Lee Mindel to make the space function as no more than a chic backdrop. So when she entertained, the people were the decoration. In that setting, each of her guests turned into a star. They stood out as unique, special, colorful characters.

Oh, and they were characters. Milling about were some of Artsy Black Manhattan’s loudest personalities. There was Janie, the Story-Topping Memoirist. Craig, the Rascally Gallerist. Tilly, the Giggly Graphic Novelist. Keisha, the Proudly Basic Jewelry Designer. Rasheed, the Intolerably Fine Book Agent. Cleo, the Fashion Photographer Obsessed with Her Blessings. Lenny, the Film Editor Who Pledged Q at Duke and Needs You to Know It.

Everyone was there. The sun shone bright and warm through Cece’s windows. Champagne was flowing. Beautiful waiters served bacon-wrapped asparagus, tiny crab toasts, and parmesan tuiles. Vegans were offered petite Iittala glass cubes filled with fresh-cut fruit. A deejay (hidden in the kitchen) played chill but fun tracks à la Solange, Khalid, and SZA. Some guests were kiki-ing on the terrace, many were strewn across the couches, and the parents were truly kicking up their heels, because their little Chloes and Jadens were downstairs in their finest Zara Kids ensembles, blessedly out of sight and taken care of.

Eva wore her favorite “summertime sexy” look: a black romper with a strapless bustier top (it made her legs look endless, and her boobs luscious). She’d swept her curls to the side with a vintage pin and added smoky eyes. She was in full siren mode.

She was also loopy as hell after a night of no sleep and endless orgasms. Neither her brain nor her legs were working properly—and she kept dissolving into embarrassing, secret giggles.

Eva loved Shane and he loved her. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not what anyone else thought. But earlier, they’d tried to make a plan for how to approach the day.

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.