1 I'm lying very still on top of a hotel bed's rumpled sheets. My mouth is slack. My eyes are open. My stare is cold and lifeless. If anyone looked down on me from overhead right now, they'd think I'm dead. And it probably wouldn't be a huge shock. I'm pretty sure no one who knows me would be like: Wow, I never imagined her life would end like this! I always thought she'd die at a ripe old age, surrounded by seventeen great-grandchildren! Because no one thinks that. I don't even think that myself. I've never really been the surrounded by seventeen great-grandchildren type. In junior high, my classmates voted me "Most Likely to Be Single." Which, like, what even is that? I spent all of recess sulking in the library, feeling deeply misunderstood. It didn't help that I hadn't been voted: 1. Most Liked 2. Most Ride-or-Die Homie 3. Most Likely to Marry the Cute One from Color Me Badd And while being voted "Most Likely to Be Single" at twelve years old isn't necessarily an early indicator that one might die alone in a hotel bed many years later, it's not hard to imagine it as part of the same narrative, right? Not that you'd expect it, but if you heard about it, you'd be like: Uh-huh, okay, I can see that. So, yeah. Nobody would be super surprised. Is what I'm saying. Plot twist: I'm not dead, I'm just really hungover. I snort and sit up straight in the bed. The sudden movement sends a wave of nausea through me and I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath, trying not to puke. When it passes, I squint hazily around the room. It's a nice room, in a nice little bed-and-breakfast called Narradora. The niceness of it is somewhat diminished, though, by the greasy, crumpled take-out bags I keep forgetting to throw in the trash and the suitcases open on the floor, spilling out dirty socks and underwear. In my defense, I just got done leading a two-week-long group trip to southern Africa for Black travelers for We Outchea, the company I own. The trip back to Philly from Zimbabwe was twenty-three hours long and I've been recovering from the flights for a week and three days, during which time I couldn't possibly have been expected to clean up after myself. A purple thong hangs out of a carry-on, crotch-side up. I squint at it through eyes that are blurry both because I'm not wearing my glasses and because they're burning in my head like little balls of fire. I rub them with my fists, like a sleepy kid. There's movement beside me, and I jump a little. There's a naked man lying next to me, sleeping with a smile on his face. I try to remember who he is but, after a few moments of racking my brain, I give up. I decide I will never drink again probably. There's a knock on the door. I look over at the sleeping man. "You expecting someone?" The man, who is light brown and has a muscular ass, doesn't answer. I look around for my glasses, don't see them, give up, get out of bed, feel another intense wave of nausea, stumble, trip over a suitcase, and fall face-first onto the floor. Mother. F***er. I get to the door and squint through the peephole, which is pointless, since I can't see shit. "Skye. It's Viva." Viva Robinson is a friend of mine from high school who also owns this nice B and B. Because I'm bad at keeping in touch, she's one of the few friends I still have in Philly. I'm about to open the door when I remember there's a naked dude in the bed. I grab the sheet and cover him from head to toe. Maybe she won't notice. "Veev," I say as I open the door, "I can't find my glasses." "Ajá, no estás vestida," she says. This is when I realize I answered the door in a camisole and a thong. I'm not embarrassed; I don't have many bits that Viva hasn't already seen. But her tone suggests there's something I'm supposed to be dressed for and I have no idea what that is. I guess my cluelessness shows on my face because she says, "Art sale." "Oh, sí." It's all coming back to me now. A year ago, one of our other high school friends, Naima, quit her bookkeeping job to do art full-time. Which I only know because Viva told me. She's still friends with some of the people we kicked it with in high school. Like, actual friends, not just social media friends. I haven't seen Naima, or almost anyone we went to high school with, since graduation, except in passing. But for some reason I can't recall now, when Viva asked me to go to Naima's art sale with her, I said I would. "It's at eleven," Viva says. "Remember?" "Of course I do." Nah, I don't. "I just need, like, ten to get ready. Fifteen tops." I move toward the bathroom as Viva comes farther inside the room. I catch her eyeing my mess. "Have you thought about getting an apartment?" I turn to look at her. I'm only in Philly for a couple of weeks every few months, between trips, which I guess makes it my base, but getting a whole-ass apartment feels more permanent than I'd like. "Is this your way of telling me I've worn out my welcome?" Viva shakes her head. "Claro que no." Good. Because I love this place. The theme of the bed-and-breakfast is famous Black and Puerto Rican women writers and the six rooms here are styled after the works of Zora Neale Hurston, Lola Rodríguez de Tió, Lorraine Hansberry, Julia de Burgos, Gwendolyn Brooks, and Gloria Naylor. My current room, the Zora Neale Hurston, has a late 1930s chaise made of ebony and upholstered in deep pink velvet; a tall, narrow, dark-finished oak armoire that reminds me of playing hide-and-seek as a child; framed book covers from Jonah's Gourd Vine, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Moses, Man of the Mountain hanging on the walls; and a painting of Zora herself, grinning in a feathered hat and fur-collared coat. I love being here, surrounded by all this. Plus, Viva and her husband, Jason, who helps manage the place, let me stay for mad cheap. "I just don't know how you survive on French fries for two weeks at a stretch," she continues, pointing to a particularly greasy bag. "The potato is a vegetable. I'm pretty sure." "I worry about you sometimes," she says. "Ew. You sound like somebody's mother. Not mine, you understand. But somebody's." She laughs. "Well, you are almost forty, chica. And you don't even have a toaster." I shrug. "Luckily, it's the twenty-first century and I can procure crunchy bread at any number of establishments throughout the city. Also--and this is really important, Viva--I'm thirty-eight and three-quarters, not almost f***ing forty." And with that, I take my ass to the shower. I'm in there, trying not to throw up, when I hear a scream of surprise and I figure Viva and the naked guy are making each other's acquaintance. Excerpted from Skye Falling: A Novel by Mia McKenzie All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
