Page 109 of Seven Days in June

“So. Does he make you laugh? Really laugh?”

“He does, actually.”

“I’ve always wondered if there was someone who’d do that for you. When we were together, I felt like someone else had stolen all your smiles before me.”

He had, she thought, clutching her stomach.

“I hope you’re happy together.”

“Thank you,” she said, so grateful to have Troy as a co-parent. “Take care of my baby, okay? She’s so tough, but fragile. Don’t let her sink too deep into herself, with the books and the art. Make sure she goes outside. And make sure an adult is present when she hangs out with Athena’s godson.”

“Why?”

“And remember she doesn’t like cheese or condiments.”

“I know. She’s mine, too, remember?” he laughed. “Audre’s always fine. She’ll FaceTime you when she gets here. You take care. Bye, Eva.”

“Bye, Troy.”

Eva lay there for two hours as waves of ruthless, savage melancholy crashed into her. Last time, it’d taken years to get over Shane. Maybe this time it’d be easier.

When she finally pulled herself up, she stepped out of her dress, sat down at her desk, and cracked open her laptop.

She wasn’t good at love. But at spinning a narrative? She was.

Cece was convinced that she’d be winning a Littie for Best Erotic Romance in a few hours. Eva didn’t think so, but itwouldgive the movie a boost. Energized, she googled that director, Eric Combs. Judging from his robust IMDb page, he knew what he was doing. With his vision, Sidney’s production prowess, and her words, her movie would happen, the way she’d always wanted. They’dwillit to happen.

With her face smeared with mascara tears, naked except for boy shorts, she pulled up herCursed, Book Fifteendraft. Her deadline was tomorrow, but she could do this. She would turn heartache to triumph andknock this shit out.

Several minutes later, nothing had come to her. So she crawled into the back of her closet and yanked out a small plastic bin filled with three overstuffed notebooks. Sitting on the floor, she pulled out her journals. They were ages old, dusty, and worn. These notebooks had traveled with her from her mom’s various apartments to the dorm and, finally, to her Brooklyn home. Each one had a name scrawled on the cover in Sharpie, in Eva’s looped, rounded teenage handwriting.

One for her mom, Lizette; one for her grandma Clotilde; and one for her great-grandma Delphine.

The yellowing lined pages were filled with notes compiled from late-night family stories her mom would tell her, drowsy on downers, after her dates. Online research. Anonymous poking in Belle Fleur Facebook groups. Calls with Louisiana records departments. Since she was a kid, she’d done everything but physically go down to Belle Fleur to research. It was a lifelong obsession, trying to glue together the broken pieces she’d inherited. These stories were her life’s blood.

On a whim, she called Lizette.

“Mom?”

“Clay?”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Are you dating a man named Clay? And do I sound like him?”

“Your voice is soloud, Genevieve. I was napping! Having the sweetest dream about Clay. Who isn’t my lover.”

“Who is he, then?”

“A professional Easter Bunny, lives up the street.” Submitted without explanation.

“Great. Well, I hate to bother you, but I need you.”

“Twice in one week? I’m flattered. You’ve never needed me for anything.”

Lizette would never get it. Eva needed her for everything. She’d just never had her.

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