Seven Days in June(73)

The spike of her orgasm subsided, but her high didn’t. Despite Shane reducing her to Jell-O, Eva managed to climb on top of him. Gripping him, she carefully eased herself down. With a throaty groan, he grabbed her ass in one hand, her breast in the other, and gave up control.

“Go ahead,” he rasped, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. “Take what’s yours.”

Eva did, grinding against him, winding her hips. Their breathing went choppy, their eyes squeezed shut, he moaned her name, she went incoherent, he squeezed her tighter, and finally, the electricity sent them both over the edge.

Dazed, Shane sat up, pulling Eva toward him, wrapping his arms around her. Eva crossed her legs behind his back. And they held each other there, for who knows how long. At some point, they toppled onto the bed together, still attached.

Hadn’t they always been?



Later, she sat with Shane on the terrace floor, overlooking a hidden garden in the backyard. The night had turned cool, so they were wrapped in an oversized beach blanket.

“This week,” she started. “Is it history repeating itself?”

“History doesn’t repeat itself,” said Shane. “But it rhymes.”

“Who said that? Nas?”

“Mark Twain.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Great philosophers, both.”



A few hours after that, they were lying horizontally across the bed. The wind had picked up again, rattling the windows. Cum-hazy after a drowsy fuck, they were tangled up together in the dark, her back sealed to his chest, his face buried in her hair. And finally, he told her what had happened that last morning in DC.

“You didn’t wake up,” Shane said in a solemn voice. “I couldn’t bring myself to slap you, like in the movies. But I shook you hard and nothing happened. You were dying. And it was my fault. I’d given you all those drugs.”

Eva pulled his hand from her breast up to her mouth and kissed it. She tucked it under her chin.

“I held you for a long time, just, you know, crying and trying to figure out what to do. Then I remembered your phone down in the kitchen. When I got it, I saw, like, thirty missed calls from your mom. So I called her.

“And I knew how it’d look when she got there. I broke into that house. I brought you there. I had prior arrests. And over the previous eight hours, I’d emptied a bottle of vodka and snorted an indeterminate amount of heroin. So yeah, I knew it’d be bad for me.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” asked Eva. “You could’ve called her, hidden somewhere, and then found me later.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” he said with finality. “And I couldn’t deny it when your mom accused me of hurting you.” He paused. “I was almost eighteen, so I was tried as an adult. But I was only locked up for two years. Good behavior.”

“You?”

“Yeah. I was different than before. I kept my head down. Didn’t start shit. Remember the mantra you gave me?”

“Yeah. Don’t fight, write.”

“It kept me safe. And I wrote Eight there.”

Eva turned to face him. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. That’s what I came to New York to say. I’m sorry I broke my promise. And I’m sorry I didn’t find you the second I was released. But by then, you’d published your first book. You were a success, and I didn’t want to ruin it. Back then, I was convinced that I ruined everything I touched.”

Eva looked at him, remembering what he’d revealed to her long ago: losing his stable, happy life with his foster parents. Blaming himself.

“After I accidentally broke my arm, and my foster mom…” He paused, jaw working. “When I survived the crash on the way to the hospital and my foster mom didn’t, I started breaking my arm on purpose. Drinking all day. And I decided that I didn’t deserve good things.”

Eva held him tight. It was all she could do. Hold him tight enough to smother that thought, for good.



Later, Shane and Eva lay in a tangle on the plush living room rug, staring up at the stained-glass window on the ceiling. Shane was on his side, tracing the planes of her face with his fingertips. Across her eyebrow, down the bridge of her nose. Cradling her face in his palms, he smooshed her cheeks together so her lips poked out. Then he stuck his finger in her dimple.

“Just say it,” Eva said with a smile.

“I’ve never said it. To anyone.”

“It won’t hurt, I promise.”

Shane grinned, a heart-stopping thing. Then laid his face on her breasts, closing his eyes.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

“I love you,” said Shane. “Dramatically, violently, and forever.”

She kissed the top of his head, smiling brighter than the sun.

“I’ve always loved you,” he whispered.

“What a coincidence,” she whispered back. “I’ve always loved you, too.”



Some indeterminate time later, Eva and Shane were eating mint gelato out of the jar, in the brightly tiled kitchen. She was perched on the island. They were each wearing a pair of Shane’s boxer briefs, and nothing else.

“…and I can’t make this movie with white characters. I couldn’t live with myself,” she said. “But I don’t know what to do. I can’t even finish book fifteen.”