Seven Days in June(17)

But now he was here, flesh and blood. It was the moment she’d always feared. But below that, in the tucked-away pockets of her subconscious—wasn’t it also the moment she’d always anticipated? Planned for? Even dreamed of?

Maybe. But not like this. Not in public. Not unprepared.

The deafening applause sent the gentle throb in her temples to daggers and reminded Eva where she was. The room was in an uproar. Shane was a literary star. He’d written only four novels—Eight, See Saw, Eat in the Kitchen, and Lock the Door on Your Way In. But they were canon. The setting was always the same nameless neighborhood crippled by devastating poverty.

His characters were whimsical, vivid, practically mythologized humans. And through ecstatic attention to detail, emotion, and nuance, he artfully manipulated readers into becoming so invested in his characters’ every thought that fifty pages would go by before they realized that there was no plot. None. Just a girl named Eight, who lost her keys. But they’d weep from the beauty of it. Eight could’ve seen a dude shot dead in the street while she was locked out, but readers would’ve cared only about her.

Shane tricked his readers into seeing humanity, not circumstance. You walked away from his books dazed, wondering how he’d managed to rip out your heart before you realized what was happening.

Every five years or so he’d drop a book; give a few choppy, unrevealing interviews; sulk through an MSNBC segment; sweep awards season (unless he was up against Junot Díaz); land a massive grant to go off somewhere and write more classic shit; and then disappear again.

Of course, he never fully disappeared. There were sightings. He’d visited the opening reception of a Kara Walker exhibit in Amsterdam three springs ago, but when it was time to read the foreword he’d written for the show, he’d vanished (so had Kara’s curvy publicist, Claudia). In 2008, he’d gone to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner but spent the whole time drying dishes with the busboys in the kitchen. He’d definitely attended J. Cole’s nuptials in North Carolina, because he’d told a guest that the only thing he liked about the South was Bojangles—which was instantly all over Twitter.

Years ago, an LA Times editor had started a rumor that Shane was a hoax. And someone else was writing his books. Because he didn’t behave like an A-list author and, frankly, he didn’t look like one. He was all jawline, pouty mouth, and unreal eyelashes—a face that had made him special before he had proved it.

Shane Hall was intimidatingly handsome. And yet on the rare occasion he smiled, it was so radiant, so warm. Like peering into a goddamn sunbeam. The effect was disorienting. You wanted to either pinch his cheeks or beg him for a hard fuck on a soft surface. You just needed whatever he had.

Eva knew this better than anyone.

At least, she used to know. She hadn’t seen him since twelfth grade.





Chapter 6





Witch Trumps Monster




“HE CAME BACK.”

Eva didn’t realize she’d said this out loud until Khalil and Belinda both whipped their heads in her direction.

“What?” asked Khalil.

“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 for Vibe once. 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.

A New York Times intern 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?”