Page 53 of Seven Days in June

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 ofAtlanta.

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 wroteAnother Countryin 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.”

They shared a quiet look. Eva turned away first.

“I meant the writing,” she emphasized.

“I can’t make words do what I want them to do anymore.” He sounded resigned.

Eva set her coffee down. “It’s like those cases where people suffer major head trauma, slip into a coma, and wake up speaking a different language. I’d imagine that’s what it’s like. Writing sober for the first time.”

“Yeah,” said Shane, mulling this over. Then he let out a small, mirthless chuckle. “It’s exactly like that. Like I woke up one day and didn’t know English. I’m trying to write in a language I no longer speak.” Then he said, “I can’t write sober. I haven’t said that out loud till now.”

Eva leaned back, and they were almost shoulder to shoulder. “Not that I ever watched any footage of you over the years”—she smiled at him—“but you never seemed messy drunk. Just sleepy.”

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