Page 19 of Seven Days in June

“Came back where? Do you know him?” Belinda whispered, a hand covering her mic. The audience was all aflutter. And it was taking Shane forever to get to the stage, because there were hands to shake and things to sign (event programs, books, one flirty girl’s forearm…).

“I just meant I can’t believe he’s making a public appearance,” Eva sputtered. “You’ve met him, right?”

“Yeah, we both had Fulbrights in 2006. We spent a summer writing at the University of London,” whispered Belinda. “But I barely saw him. Put it this way: there’s a pub on every corner in East London.”

“Overrated,” pronounced Khalil. “I was supposed to interview him forVibeonce. He kept me waiting in a West Hollywood Starbucks for four hours, then showed up, rambled about a turtle for ten minutes, and ghosted. The story got killed, of course.Clown.This is why Negroes can’t have nice things.”

“The hate is strong in this one,” Belinda said with snark.

He glared at her. “I’ve grown weary of you.”

Eva was no longer listening. Because there was Shane. Onstage with them, swept up into Cece’s possessive embrace, to the tune of a thousand iPhone snaps. Then Cece let him go, and the panelists stood up (Eva unsteady in her skyscraper heels and agita). Shane gave Khalil a pound and Belinda a hug, and then it was just him and Eva.

She was shaking uncontrollably. There was no way she could hug him. Or even step an inch closer to him. Instead, she offered her hand—it jutted out from her arm, a strange appendage—and he shook it.

“I’m Shane,” he said, her hand still in his. “I love your work.”

“Th-thanks. I’m…Eva.” Eva sounded unsure of her own name. He squeezed her hand a little, a private gesture, telling her to relax. She immediately yanked it out of his grasp.

ANew York Timesintern sprinted out of the wings with an extra chair, scooted it between Cece and Belinda, and handed Shane a mic. Everyone sat down. Khalil was fuming.

“Well,” started Cece, “this person needs no introduction, I’m sure. Let’s give Shane Hall a warm welcome, shall we? Shane, you can join us for a couple minutes, can’t you?”

Cece graced him with a blinding proud-mama smile. Like the way Diana used to look at Michael:I’m fucking brilliant; I discovered this unicorn.

“I mean, do I have to?” said Shane, with an amused chuckle in his voice. He grew up in Southeast Washington, DC, and the inflections still lived in his vaguely Southern-sounding, slow accent. ThatAh meeaaantook him ten years to get out.

“You have no choice. Payback for allowing that Random House editor to steal you from me.” Cece gestured toward Eva and company.

“But I…um…I’m not the best public speaker. I really just came to watch. This is awkward.” He looked out into the crowd apologetically. “But when Cece Sinclair tells you to do something, you do it. I ain’t crazy.”

“Unconfirmed,” mumbled Khalil.

Before Shane could address this shade, a young woman raised her hand. She was wearing a snapback that saidMAKE AMERICA NEW YORK. Her face was beet red.

“Mr. H-Hall,” she stammered. “Not to be rude, but I love you.”

He smiled. “Rude would be ‘I hate you.’”

She laughed way too hard. “I can’t believe you’re here. Just had to tell you,Eightis the reason I write. Eight, the character, isme. You never see angsty, depressed Black girls in pop culture. There’s no BlackProzac NationorGirl, Interrupted. I love that she narrates every book.”

“Thank you.” He shifted a little in his seat. “I like her, too.”

“Is Eight based on a real person? You describe her so intimately. It’s like I’m peeking in on something I shouldn’t see.”

“Do you think Eight’s real?”

“Definitely,” she said, nodding.

“Then she is.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.” He grinned.

And then Eva had to do it. Finally, she had the nerve to look over at him—and regretted it instantly.

Age had made the skin around his eyes crinklier. Eva had forgotten about the scar snaking across his nose. He had scars everywhere. Once, while he was sleeping, she’d counted them all. Traced them with her mouth. And then named them, like constellations.

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