Seven Days in June(56)

It was 9:00 a.m., and Eva was watching The Exorcist on her phone, in bed. She’d woken up an hour earlier, intending to write. But when the alarm blared (her ringtone was Cece singing “Write your, write your book” in the key of Rihanna’s “Work work work work work”), she’d elected to watch her comfort movie instead. This scene always killed her. This woman’s twelve-year-old daughter was up in her bedroom, gruesomely possessed by the devil—while a priest wrote it off as depression. Never mind that the girl was humping crucifixes and levitating. It was an old story, really. Women telling the truth, and no one believing them.

Depression, my ass, thought Eva. In the words of Grandma Clo, it’s Satan hisself.

Eva knew every word of The Exorcist, and the familiarity always lulled her into calm. After the Dream House, she made the walk of shame home, relieved the babysitter, ordered La Villa pizza for dinner, and ate in silence with Audre, and then they both escaped to their bedrooms. She couldn’t face her daughter. How could she go through the motions—making homework inquiries, checking in on the status of Audre’s art project—when she’d just recklessly thotted throughout the West Village?

Cringing, Eva curled herself into a ball under her pristine white duvet. What if they’d been caught? She’d already searched DREAM HOUSE + SHANE HALL + EVA MERCY several times, and nothing had come up. Just in case, she preemptively booked an appointment with a Google-search cleanup agency.

She was shocked at the recklessness of her behavior.

And then there was her silent standoff with Audre. They’d never fought like this. In a few days, Audre would fly off to Dadifornia for the summer, and Eva couldn’t bear it if she left angry.

Before Audre woke up for school, Eva put her breakfast out on the table, with a note saying, “I love you, baby. Let’s talk when you get home.” Then she snuck back to her bedroom. Even mid-awkwardness, she wanted her daughter to know that she was there. But Eva needed her space, too. She was still tingling from Shane’s touch, his mouth, his everything—and she wanted to indulge in it for as long as she could.

Eva bit her lip, trying to keep her guilty, thrilled smile from spreading. Shane. She’d divulged all to him. He’d cracked her open, and she’d come spilling out, slow and sweet as honey. She wanted to hate letting him get inside again. She’d been so willing to give it all up.

Over the years, during lazy daydreams, she’d sometimes allowed herself to fantasize about running into him. But in her thoughts, they’d still been kids. She couldn’t imagine them relating to each other as adults. Whatever Shane sparked in her, she’d thought she’d outgrown. But they weren’t who they used to be. They were better.

She pulled the duvet closer to her chin, her cheeks blazing, and she had an epiphany. Shane wasn’t a thing to outgrow. He’d always fit. No matter how old or young or sophisticated or raw she was. No matter how much time had passed.

Shane was inevitable.

I need to be careful, she thought. But careful didn’t exist with Shane. It was like entering a burning building. You could wear sunglasses and lather yourself in sunscreen, but you’d still go up in flames.

With a groan, she rubbed a temple and sat up, propped against three pillows. All of this was moot, because she’d fled from the scene. She had to apologize. But there was no cute meme to send after you had semipublic ex sex, came so hard that tears sprang to your eyes, and then bolted with your unhooked bra hanging out of your armhole.

Eva thought she’d feel powerful, leaving before she was left. But all she felt was emptiness. She’d wanted to stay locked in his arms forever. Or at least until their Sleep Guide issued them a fornication fine for breaking the rules.

Running away wasn’t empowering. An empowered woman would’ve indulged.

Focus, she told herself. Step one, text him. Step two, own up to it. Step three, tell him you had a great time. Step four, explain why it can’t go any further.

She picked up the phone.





Today, 9:30 AM


EVA: Lol?

SHANE: Lol? Seriously?

EVA: I’m sorry.

SHANE: No, don’t apologize. I more than deserved it.

EVA: You did, but I’m still sorry. It was ridiculous the way I left.

SHANE: No, ridiculous was me, lying on the floor, alone, with my dick out.

EVA: Actually, that was a beautiful sight.

SHANE: …thank you?

EVA: Np.

SHANE: Can I see you? I need to see you.

EVA: I don’t think it’s a good idea.

SHANE: But we had a perfect day.

EVA: We did! But…let’s leave it at that. We finally have closure. An ending.

SHANE: That felt like an ending to you?

EVA: *panicked silence

SHANE: Don’t panic. I’m fucking shook, too. Please, can we meet somewhere?

EVA: Texting is safer.

SHANE: Why, tho?

EVA: Seeing you in person makes me forget the things I should remember.

SHANE: Was that a haiku?

EVA: Shane.

SHANE: I wanna SEE you. You home? I’m coming over.

EVA: You don’t have my address.

SHANE: It’s easy to get. I have Cece’s number, and you know she loves drama.

SHANE: *hopeful silence

EVA: Fuck. 45 7th Avenue. Ground floor.

SHANE: You sure? If you really don’t want me to…