Page 3 of Seven Days in June

Regular-ass things. Like diving headfirst into a pool. Holding up their end of a conversation for more than twenty minutes. Burning scented candles. Getting tipsy. Surviving an F-train ride while a subway saxophonist blared “Ain’t Nobody” for nine stops. Enjoying sex in ambitious positions. Laughing too heartily. Crying too mightily. Breathing too deeply. Walking too swiftly.

Living, period. She’d bet these women could do most of these things without shredding agony smiting them like punishment from an angry god. What was it like, the luxury of not hurting?

I’m an alien, Eva thought. She’d always felt as if she were impersonating a human, and she accepted it. But she’d never stop fantasizing about being unsick.

“Uhhh…excuse me for a sec,” Eva managed. “J-just need to call my daughter.”

Calmly clutching her tote, she swept through the red velvet door of the private room. Weaving through tables of suburban theatergoers gushing overHamilton, she spotted the ladies’ lounge behind the hostess area. She rushed in, burst into a handicapped stall with a sink, and vomited into the toilet.

For moments afterward, Eva stood there, breathing deeply through the pain, the way her team of neurologists, acupuncturists, and Eastern healers had taught her. Then she vomited again.

Swaying, she grasped the sink rim for balance. Her eyeliner was a mess now. This was why she wore it smudged. She never knew when an episode would strike—so if her makeup aesthetic was Rihanna-at-3:00-a.m., then she could pretend it was intentional.

Eva pulled her box of disposable painkiller injections out of her bag. Yanking up her dress, she exposed her scar-addled thigh, jabbed in a needle, and tossed it in the trash. For good measure, she grabbed an Altoids tin and chose a medical-marijuana gummy bear (prescribed by NYC’s top pain specialist, thank you very much). She chomped off an ear.Fuck it, she thought and tossed the whole thing in her mouth. This would take the edge off until nighttime, so she could get through mommy-daughter after-school rituals and then crash.

Gingerly, Eva leaned back against the tiled wall. Her lids shuttered closed.

Sickness wasn’t sexy. And her disability was invisible—she wasn’t missing a limb or in a full-body cast. Her level of suffering seemed impossible for others to fathom. After all, everyone got headaches sometimes, like during coffee withdrawal or the flu. So she hid it. All people knew was that Eva canceled plans a lot (“Busy writing!”). And was prone to fainting, like at Denise and Todd’s wedding (“Too much prosecco!”). Or forgot words midsentence (“Sorry, just distracted”). Or disappeared for weeks at a time (“Writing retreat!”—definitely not an in-patient stay in Mount Sinai’s pain ward).

White lies were easier than the truth.

Case in point: what would the Orgasmic Ohioans think if they knew she wanted to strangle Sebastian and Gia? To banish them to wherever thoseTwilightfuckers went?

She loved her books at first. She wrote to tickle herself, the ideas sparking like wildfire. Then she wrote for her readers. Now she lifted entire plot points from the comments sections ofCursedfansites—the depth of author-cheating.

She just couldn’t peddle “tortured romance” anymore. Years ago, she’d thought love wasn’t real unless it drew blood. She, Sebastian, and Gia were all teens once, sharing the same twisted brain. Sebastian and Gia didn’t grow up. But Eva did.

She wantedCursedto die, but the series provided a stable, secure life for Audre. Eva had fought dragons to spare her baby from the childhood she’d had. And she’d won. She just wished she could find her spark again. The movie might help her rescue it.

Not only that, but deep down, Eva hoped it’d give her a fresh start. With her cut from the deal, she could finally afford to take a break from writingCursedand work on her dream book, the one that’d been buzzing under her skin forever. She was so much more than her silly, raunchy romance (at least, she hoped she was). It was time for her to prove it to herself.

Feeling a bit better, Eva rinsed her mouth out with her travel-size mouthwash. Almost unconsciously, she raised her left middle finger, where she always wore her vintage cameo ring (she felt naked without it), to her nose and inhaled. It was an old habit—the barely there scent of some long-ago woman’s perfume always soothed her.

Finally, in a quiet moment, she decided to check her phone.

Today, 12:45 PM

Queen Cece

MA’AM. Where are you? As your editor, I HOPE you’re writing. As your best friend, I DEMAND you take a break. HUGE NEWS. Text back.

Today, 1:11 PM

Sidney the Producer

Been trying to get you for 3 hours! I think I found our director! Call me.

Today, 2:40 PM

My Baby

did u get me the feathers 4 my #feministicon art project I need it 4 grandma’s portrait specifically her hair it was so fluffy thx mama enjoy ur cringey sex luncheon xo

Today, 3:04 PM

Jackie, the Weirdly Hypochondriac Sitter I Only Use 4 Emergencies

Audre’s home from the Debate Team pizza lunch. But she brought 20 kids with her. I noted on my ChildCare.com profile that I don’t do large groups. (Agoraphobia, germaphobia, claustrophobia).

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