Seven Days in June(50)

With her daughter, her career, and her life in tatters, Eva had no business wasting an hour in this place. But here she was, lost to the world. It felt like what happened here didn’t count in real life.

And then there was Shane.

She wasn’t ready to say goodbye again. She was aching to make their afternoon last. There was no way to pretend that her day with Shane, though platonic, wasn’t the biggest thrill she’d had in forever. It was so easy. Scarily so.

Eva felt a jolt in her personality around him. Shane was pulling her back to her real self; all the goofy, random, raw, dark moments she usually hid were on full display. And he drank it all in. The give-and-take of luring him in and allowing herself to be lured: God, it was exhilarating. She’d forgotten the way they existed in each other’s space. That old current was still there, buzzing in the air between them.

Eva was dizzy with it, wanted to suck it into her veins. She felt daring and flirty—jolted awake after too many years of being afraid to feel anything. And if she never saw Shane again after today, she’d be fine. Today was enough.

Stay tuned for this and other lies on Fox News at eight, she thought.

When they arrived at their room, Eva spread their blankets on the matted floor, Shane fluffed the pillows, and they lay down. And that was when two cynical skeptics became very, very sleepy.

Eyes feeling heavy, Eva glanced around the cozy (if borderline-claustrophobic) room. It was the size of a modest walk-in closet. Neon lights reading NIGHT NIGHT decorated the ceiling, pulsing a low, hazy violet-blue glow. Four beats on, four beats off, like a heartbeat. The color turned their skin a surreal, soothing violet.

Eva turned to face Shane, fluffing the pillow under her cheek. He lay flat on his back, one hand tucked behind his head. She watched him watching the flashing words—soon his lids shuttered, his lashes resting on his cheekbones.

“I need a room like this in my house,” he murmured.

“Where’s your house?”

“Well, yeah, I need to get one first.” He opened his eyes, turning his head toward her. “I could never decide where I wanted to stay. Before I started teaching, I’d move twice a year. Nairobi, Siargao, Copenhagen, anyplace near water. Laos. I went on a motorcycle trek there once. Vietnam has the most dramatic terrain. Jungles and mountains and waterfalls. Technicolor-green grass. You feel like the topography’s happening to you. Did you know over there they call the Vietnam War the American War?”

“As well they should,” said Eva, cozying her cheek into the pillow. “What’s your favorite place?”

“Taghazout, a shipping village in Morocco,” he said, no hesitation. “A nine-year-old kid taught me how to surf there.”

“Your life sounds made up, I swear.”

“It’s true!” he insisted. “And I was good. I ripped my stomach open on coral, though. Probably should’ve gotten stitches, but I had to act cool in front of this little dude, who was fearless. He was surfing before he could talk. Missing a pinky finger. Tatted up. A fucking pirate. Anyway, I duct-taped it together and it healed crazy.”

“There wasn’t any Neosporin in this town? Let me see the scar.”

It was almost pitch black, but Eva could feel Shane’s smirk.

“You’re asking me to take off my shirt?”

“God, no.” She bit her lip. “Just pull it up.”

“You asking or telling?”

“Telling.”

He looked at her for a moment with an air-crackling gaze, then reached behind his back and pulled his shirt off completely. In the dark, she made out a puffy, jagged scar snaking across his stomach. More vividly, she saw his strong arms and chest. And his lightly muscled abs, and all that smooth deep-sienna skin stretching down, down, to the barest happy trail disappearing into his jeans. Jesus.

Eva wanted to suck the skin there so badly. Just above his jeans.

“Why are you such a thirst trap?”

“You forced me to do this!” Shane whispered into the dark, pulling his shirt back over his head. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t sleep,” she murmured. “I’m distracted.”

“Why?” He turned his head to face her. And then their eyes locked in silent conversation. It was all so dreamlike. Minutes were melting into each other. Their blinks became slower, the two of them wearing syrupy, satisfied smiles.

Finally, Eva delivered an answer that neither of them believed. “I’m trying to memorize this room. It’s good material; maybe it’ll show up in a book,” she said, yawning faux drowsily. “Honestly, as stressful as writing is, I can’t imagine not doing it.”

“It’s heady, right?” he muttered, eyes focused on her mouth.

“Yeah, the power’s so good. Making complete strangers laugh, cry, get turned on. It’s better than sex.”

“Is it, though?”

“I wouldn’t remember, actually,” she admitted. “I’m at the sexual equivalent of rock bottom. It’s been ages.”

“You? But you’re such a filthy writer.”

“I have a filthy imagination,” she corrected.

And sometimes it’s enough, she thought. Mostly, it’s lonely.

Cece had once diagnosed Eva as touch-starved. (One of her authors wrote a self-help book about it.) When someone went too long without touch, they became hypersensitive to the slightest graze. There was truth to it. Last weekend, Eva had almost had an orgasm when her hairstylist shampooed her. And her hairstylist was a grandmother of six.