Seven Days in June(43)

“I need a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Really?”

Nodding slowly, he caught her gaze. “What do you need?”

Focus.

“Will you teach English at my daughter’s…”

“Yes,” he interrupted.

“…school? I don’t know how long you’re staying. But the head of school is desperate for an English-lit teacher for next school year. It’s sort of an emergency.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

With twinkly eyes, he said, “Tell me later.”

“Bold of you to assume there’ll be a later.”

“Bold of you to assume there won’t be.”

Eva’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“A platonic later.” Shane gestured at her, with his coffee. “You’re saying the past is truly behind us, right?”

“Right.”

“So let’s start over. Be friends. You got somewhere to be?”

Frowning, she glanced at her watch. “Yeah. My life is…Well, it’s falling apart.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

She shook her head. “No. I better go.”

“Okay.” Shane’s expression gave away nothing. “Bye.”

Surprised, Eva let out an involuntary huff. “Bye?”

Leaning into the doorframe, Shane said, “You want me to convince you to play hooky? If you want to do it, do it. You’re grown.”

“Fine.” She cocked her head, sizing him up. “Are you still dangerous?”

He chuckled. “Are you?”

“I’m a mom. I write letters to principals, demanding energy-efficient classrooms.”

“And I was researching a silent Zen retreat five minutes before you showed up. We’re so boring now. What trouble could we get into?”

Biting his bottom lip, he raised his coffee cup toward her.

“One hour,” she said, clicking her cup against his. “Tops.”

She took in his satisfied, sure smile. She’d never been sturdy enough to withstand that.



First things first, Eva had to tell Bridget O’Brien the good news. As she quickly emailed Bridget, her fingers flying excitedly over her phone, a sense of exhilarated relief flooded her. Audre’s place at Cheshire Prep—and everything they’d worked for—was safe. Her baby’s academic career, saved! Thank God for Shane.

And then as quickly as it came, her relief began to dissolve into something else—the slowly dawning realization that Shane was staying. Shane, in her city. Infiltrating her world.

It was a small price to pay for Audre’s academic career. She wouldn’t stress about this now. Instead, all she felt was gratefulness.

The sun shone amber and hot, but there was a gorgeous breeze—a perfect day for aimless wandering. So when Shane suggested they walk along the High Line, she cautiously agreed. It’d be a chill outing for a couple of old…friends? Whatever they were, Shane and Eva hit the hidden stairwell up to the High Line, just behind the tourist-packed Whitney Museum. The elevated promenade connecting the West Village to Chelsea was filled with food carts, fountains, and shaded gardens overlooking the city. After a short walk, they found the mini-amphitheater fronted by a glass wall looking over Tenth Avenue.

Eva was a bundle of nerves, but she felt surprisingly calm in Shane’s presence. The sparse crowd on the steps radiated an infectious lazy-day calm: a nursing mom, a dog walker sunbathing with four Yorkies, an older couple sipping lemonade. Eva and Shane picked a spot and carefully launched into hesitant small talk. About the weather. Book sales. The second season of Atlanta.

Soon, after slipping into an easy silence, Eva dropped the circular chitchat and dove in.

“Soooo,” she started. “Eighty-One Horatio Street.”

“My address. What about it?” He shook his coffee, melting the ice.

“That was James Baldwin’s house.”

“As stated,” he noted, “by the plaque on the door.”

“No, I’m a Baldwin obsessive. I know he lived there, from 1958 to 1961.” She raised her brows pointedly. “He wrote Another Country in that house.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

Crossing her arms, Eva hit him with a squinty-eyed look. “That’s the novel you were reading on the bleachers. When we met.”

He folded his arms and met her eyes. “Poetic coincidence.”

“Shane.”

He beamed.

“You’re pretty sentimental, bruh,” she said.

“And you remembered it. So you are, too.” With his smile splitting his face, Shane leaned back on his forearms, crossing his legs in front of him. The sun bounced off the planes of his skin. She found him stupidly irresistible.

“If you have the opportunity to make a moment meaningful, why not take it?” he continued. “I could’ve stayed at a Ramada Inn with sad salesmen dying slowly of cliché and ennui. Or I could rent my favorite author’s house and hopefully get inspired to write. If not, I’d at least enjoy a week of full-circle symbolism.”

“How’s that working for you?”

“The full-circle symbolism? Well, we’re sitting on bleachers again, fifteen Junes later, so I’d say it’s going pretty well.”