Chapter Eight Evelyn
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVELYN
She slowly rose and took in the sight of her studio.
Evelyn had managed to get herself under the covers though she was still in her clothes from the previous night.
A manila folder lay on her duvet cover. She sat up, opened it, scanned the documents clipped together.
A list of counselors and therapists who specialized in different modalities.
Right. Linda had placed the folder in her hand and told her to seek out help, that she might need to talk through whatever came up for her. That it was important. Right.
Evelyn groggily got up and checked the weather on her phone.
Temperatures were going to plummet, be chilly.
She handled her business in the bathroom, showered, and started to get an outfit together.
She’d started the day late and wouldn’t reach Mtume until a bit after nine.
Considering her standards, abysmally late.
She settled for gelling her edges and pulling the rest of her hair into a puffy bun before putting on some moisturizer and lip gloss.
She opened her closet to go through her blazer-and-skirt combos, all of which seemed stodgy and tired.
“Fuck it,” she mumbled. She snagged a hand-me-down cream sweater from Deirdre and wide-leg jeans, put on a pair of hoop earrings, and strode out the door.
She reached the office in less than twenty minutes. The Metro, mercifully on time, though everything, from the sun to the train’s fluorescent signs, seemed disconcertingly bright.
“Hey, girl, lookin’ good,” Chyna said when Evelyn walked into the reception area.
“Thanks,” she murmured back, certain she looked a mess. Though Mtume had casual Fridays for years now, it wasn’t like her to indulge. Chyna must have just been happy to see her out of a blazer. She spotted Kent coming up the hall and didn’t have it in her to try and make a detour, to play games.
“Evelyn, hey. And wow, look at you,” he said.
She gave a limp wave back and made her way to her desk.
Upon checking her emails, she was dismayed to see that Fitzroy had called an emergency meeting in fifteen minutes to discuss the agency revisiting paranormal opportunities.
After all, a man had just been discovered on DC streets with glowing red eyes and burning flesh.
“There are hundreds of influencers we can reach out to, to partner with,” he asserted in front of the long conference table. “Branding partnerships waiting to be had.”
Evelyn rolled her eyes. Her boss’s foolishness this morning, unbearable. “Are we really going to pursue this? We don’t even know if what’s going on is real,” she said. She didn’t hide the annoyance in her voice. “And capitalizing on someone else’s misfortune like this… seems wrong.”
“I agree,” said her coworker Miles, known for being a maverick with his pitches.
Fitzroy, visibly annoyed with Evelyn’s response, shot her a series of scowls during the rest of the meeting. He asked another account rep to follow the case closely. Evelyn didn’t care.
For the rest of the day, she forced herself to be present.
More than anything, she just wanted to move slow, be in her body, her professional duties a hook constantly dragging her from the stillness she craved.
She handled work in a perfunctory manner, spoke to her colleagues, but otherwise felt disconnected from the office.
On the ride back home on the Metro, everything seemed heightened.
The sight of brownish red fluid that coated part of an empty seat brought on a wave of nausea.
The popping sound that a headphoned teenager made with the gum he chewed grated her nerves.
She zoned out for a moment and then stared at a poster directly across from her seat, which had escaped her notice.
A Black female model with multicolored braids was overjoyed as she cavorted in bed with a hairy dude sporting a mustache and fade.
Above the couple, a slogan hovered in bright red font: SII VIVO!
The product being sold to commuters, tailored Italian bedsheets at a modest price point.
It wasn’t the first time Evelyn had seen the ad on the train, the work of a rival agency.
Fitzroy would’ve deemed it too brazen. Too risqué for the market and not the sort of thing Mtume should handle.
Making money off of people traumatized by ghosts?
Sure. But centering female pleasure? No way.
Evelyn looked at the woman, the sheer joy on her face. Lovely.
Once she got home, Evelyn found that her appetite was barely there.
She could only manage nibbling on cheese and bread before she turned in.
She changed into cotton PJs and fell asleep quickly.
She dreamed of the thick dancing blue silhouette, this sparkling precious mystery that seemed both familiar and new.
She woke up the next morning at ten, another day rising late.
She was grateful that it was a Saturday, as all she could bring herself to do was sit up and stare at the exposed brick walls of her apartment.
Brilliant sunlight streamed through the studio’s windows, echoing what she felt in her spirit.
She closed her eyes and once again saw the dancing blue from her dreams.
What had happened to her on Thursday night?
Evelyn spent almost the entire day in bed, relieved to be still.
Not working on a Saturday, which she’d done every morning for the past year.
Being in her body, simply staring at her body…
its roundness, its firmness. Something felt wonderful.
When was the last time she actually had rest, when she wasn’t constantly on the run for work or spending time with Deirdre or Kent?
When listening to Black women influencers going on about the importance of rest, Evelyn thought, Y’all just some lazy heifers.
But being in the bed, doing nothing, sitting with whatever was coursing through her veins, random memories drifting into her head… a relief.
She stared at the ceiling, at the walls of her place. The studio’s barrenness was usually a source of embarrassment if she thought about it too hard. But this time, the blank canvas of it all beckoned to her in a fresh way. A call to begin again.
Evelyn didn’t feel like putting on the TV and taking in people consumed by drama, so she listened to the district’s public radio station on her desktop.
How once again the news was filled with pundits conjecturing what a man showing up with demon eyes on district streets met.
A Washington Post journalist pointed out that there would most likely be a delay in any real reaction from governmental authorities, with Congress taking spring recess and the president abroad in Asia.
She calmly absorbed all the information she could handle.
The anxiety that had consumed her soul over the Ghost Equinox simply wasn’t there. Which struck her as odd.
She tried to make heads or tails of why she kept on having random thoughts, especially of her time with her Grandmama.
Of the feelings that arose in her grandmother’s presence.
The pride and power. They’d never had much in Baltimore’s Brooklyn neighborhood, but not a day had gone by when the old woman hadn’t praised Evelyn on something wonderful about who she was…
her smarts, her grades, her smile, her attentiveness, her articulation…
even how she skipped through playgrounds.
Which had all vanished when Grandmama died and Evelyn was left with her grandfather, someone she refused to think of.
The anger she felt when she thought about what she’d endured with that man.
The next day, after a night twirling with her dancing blue as she slept, Evelyn left the studio, figuring she needed to get some early afternoon air.
She walked for about fifteen minutes, enjoying being outside, and spotted the local South African bar, Makeda’s, that she hadn’t been to in ages.
A serene space with live jazz and festive vibes and Black folks looking successful and fine. Yes, that would do.
Evelyn took a seat at the bar, a little self-conscious, as she was dressed casually.
In less than a minute, she noticed a dude checking her out.
A statuesque baldie with a thin mustache and navy tailored suit who could give Kent real competition on the debonair scale.
Was he an attorney? A financial analyst or techie?
He smiled her way. A surprise. For a split second, she wondered what she should do.
She imagined herself by his side three or four dates into the future, holding his arm as he took the lead, the pair capturing everyone’s attention as they dined at an exclusive bistro by the wharf.
The beginnings of another shiny, immaculate campaign.
Then it came out of nowhere, a surge of revulsion.
She heard her name.
“Evelyn?”
She turned around and saw the bearded face she hadn’t beheld in months.
“Ohmigosh, Trevor?” And that’s when she remembered why she avoided Makeda’s, because it was one of his favorite hangout spots.
The place where they had, in fact, first went on a date.
She didn’t want to run into the man she’d ghosted.
“Hey there, you.” He approached her quickly. He haltingly opened his arms, unsure if they should hug.
Evelyn rushed in for an embrace without a second thought just as she noticed the statuesque baldie walk away.
She was consumed by the scent of Trevor’s vanilla cologne.
His back and shoulders and arms, more solid than she remembered.
Fleshy, firm. For a moment, she was transported to another place and time as Afrobeats played in the background.
“Look at you, girl.” Trevor stepped back and held her arm up so he could take her in properly. “Damn. Radiant sky-goddess vibe. On the real…”