Seven Days in June by Tia Williams
Chapter 9
A Verbal Blush
SHANE SHOWED UP TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLY TO KOSCIUSKO CAFÉ, WHICH wasn’t a café at all. It was an untrendy sixty-year-old diner left over from the days when Crown Heights was still a Polish neighborhood. The decor was frozen in 1964: Formica tables, intense fluorescent track lighting, shiny red vinyl booths, and ceiling fans instead of AC. According to Shane’s cursory glance at Yelp, lasagna was their thing. But he was too anxious to eat.
He was too anxious to do anything but seat himself in a booth by a window. And wait. And calm his thundering heart by watching airport-reunion videos on YouTube. (Besides running, this was his clean coping mechanism.)
At 10:02, Eva stormed in. She stomped to the hostess stand, looking notably different from last night’s sleek glamazon thing. She was simple in wild curls, clingy tank, boyfriend jeans, Jordans. Unfairly sexy glasses. This morning, she was even more dangerous—if that was possible.
And Shane devolved from a composed adult to a besotted adolescent.
Genevieve. That’s really her, all grown up. Eva. But also definitely Genevieve.
Shane’s thoughts were a jumble. As usual, he hadn’t really thought last night through. He’d never dreamed Genevieve would be at the event. His only goal had been to connect with Cece and nonchalantly ask her for Genevieve’s contact info. And if Cece had asked why? Well, he wasn’t sure what he would’ve said.
If he’d thought too much about any of this, he wouldn’t have come.
Shane watched Genevieve (Eva—he had to get used to her new name) whisper something to the hostess. She hadn’t seen him yet, though, and he stole this small, secret moment to drink her in. To try to reconcile the girl with the woman.
As a girl, she’d been all angles, sharp lines, a wiry spark plug of unpredictability. A little scary. A lot breathtaking. Her expressions were in HD—she broadcast everything on her face. And then there was the dimple, that fucking adorable dimple in her right cheek. It popped when she smiled; it popped when she talked; it popped when she breathed. There was a matching one on the left, too, but it was less prominent. As if once God had so masterfully conceived the right one, he was like, I’m exhausted; this’ll do.
The girl had been irresistible. This woman was something else entirely. Her sharpness had softened. She stood straighter and spoke with clever confidence. She was a badass writer, had been a publishing success story since nineteen, and wore it so well. Her teenage fury had morphed into something else: power.
The hostess pointed to Shane, and Eva strode over to him. Looking stern and gorgeous.
And he knew that he was fucked.
She slid into the seat across from him, plopping down a tote bag that read WELL-READ BLACK GIRL. And then they were finally alone.
Eva, whose written words were bold enough to inspire PTA moms to dream of hopping on a broomstick (or a hot Black dude) and escaping their lives, said, “So. Uh. Hi.”
Shane, whose written words were lyrical enough to make the stuffy Pulitzer Prize board want to roll up, stream Damn, and ruminate on the paradoxical mysteries of man, managed, “Glasses. Nice.”
“Oh. Really? Uh…th-thank you,” she said. “I…found out I was nearsighted after I started writing, so I got LASIK. And I had twenty-twenty vision for ages, but then a couple of years ago, in 2017…no, 2015…my eyesight started deteriorating. And my very helpful Hasidic ophthalmologist, Dr. Steinberg, said I’d developed an astigmatism. So, glasses. I wear them now.”
Shane tried and failed not to smile at this. Her words were a verbal blush.
“The word ‘astigmatism’ feels wrong,” he said. “Like, it should be ‘I have a stigmatism.’”
“‘Opossum,’ too. I always think it’s a possum.”
“So, this isn’t awkward at all.”
“Super normal,” Eva said, downing her entire glass of water.
“I…I’m kinda speechless,” he stammered, still awestruck. “You look the same but so different.”
“Cece made me wear that dress last night. And straight hair.” Nervously, she fluffed her bangs. “This is what I really look like.”
“I know what you really look like,” he said simply.
Eva shifted slightly in her seat and picked up the laminated menu on her plate.
“You look different, too,” she started.
“How?”
“Your eyes are open.”
“I’m sober.”
“I’m…stunned.”
“Me too.”
“How long?”
“Two years and two months.”
“Is it sticking?”
“I’ll let you know in another couple years.”
“No, you got this.”
A hot flush radiated across his chest, but he ignored it. “So. You had to make me evil, huh? A vampire?”
“If the fangs fit,” she shot back. “Did you have to make me an adorable runaway with a heart of gold?”
“I didn’t make you that. You were that.”
Eva grabbed a half-moon of seven-grain bread from the basket and began anxiously tearing at it. Whatever she was feeling, he didn’t want her to be alone in it. In a sign of solidarity, he grabbed a roll, too.
Just in time, a waitress appeared to take their drink orders. She was a sixty-something minx with a fuchsia lace headband and an eastern-European accent.
“Just water,” said Eva primly. “No, I’ll have a chocolate milkshake.”
“Two ztrawz?” said the waitress. She winked at Eva and then looked Shane up and down. “Well, aren’t you a chocolate doughnut?”
“One straw,” said Eva.
Shane scanned the menu, stopping on the natural juices, ever mindful of his new healthy lifestyle. “I guess I’ll have the Mint-Kale Clean Green Mean juice?”
“You zound like you don’t really vant that,” the waitress remarked, and bounced.
“So,” began Eva. “You’ve read my whole series.”
“Every line.” He popped a piece of bread into his mouth. “You’ve read mine, too.”
“With a highlighter.”
“I meant what I said in there,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan. I’m an English teacher now, and while my students are reading Hawthorne in class, I read you.”
“You teach?” Eva’s skepticism was palpable. “What school would allow you anywhere near their student population?”
“I’ve changed.” His confident smile made it believable. “I think this is what writers call a character arc.”
“I see.” Eva cocked her head. “Speaking of writers. Your little speech about Cursed? It was…like…What were you…”
Shane cringed. He never would’ve thought that there’d be a time when they didn’t know how to talk to each other. Years ago, they’d had a purely instinctual rhythm. A wordless connection so raw that minutes after meeting, they pounced. But rational-minded adults didn’t take such liberties.
Of course, Shane was, historically, not great at being an adult.
“Just talk to me,” he said. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”
“Fine.” She shoved her glasses up her nose, inelegantly and irresistibly. “Your speech about Cursed? It was a lot. You can’t just jump from 2004 to 2019, shock me to death, and then hit me with a…rapturous, doctorate-level thesis of my supernatural erotica. Those books are my babies, and even I know they’re not that good. Hearing you talk like that? You? After fifteen years? I couldn’t breathe.” She huffed, exasperated. “Why’d you come on stage last night?”
“Cece made me.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“True. And you could’ve worn jeans.”
“Okay, fair point. Cece owns us all.”
“Honestly? I was shook.” Shane reached for more bread. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. Next thing I know, we’re up there together, and you bring up Eight, and I just…blacked out and said too much.”
“We weren’t really talking about our books, Shane. Everyone knew.”
“I know. Fuck. I got a certificate for best communicator in AA. How’d I get here?”
“Good question,” she said pointedly.
With impressive timing, the waitress swept by the table with Shane’s radioactive-green mint-kale juice and Eva’s milkshake.
Shane took a gulp and instantly regretted it. The mint was awful. It tasted like a Listerine smoothie. He swallowed, cheeks puffed out, miserable. Generously, Eva slid her milkshake toward him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a swig. He hated being healthy. “I’m here to present at the Littie Awards on Sunday.”
“Nope. You don’t do awards ceremonies. Or panels. And you’re never in Brooklyn. You’ve been very careful to avoid me.”
“I’ve been avoiding life in general.”
Eva rolled her eyes extravagantly.
“It’s true!” insisted Shane. “Meanwhile, you mastered it. You made it to Princeton. Got married, had a beautiful girl.”
“How do you know anything about me? You’re not on social media.”
“Nah, people are strange enough in real life. I don’t need to view their psychosis through a zany filter,” he said, scowling. “But yeah, in some masochistic moments, I’ve looked you up. You and Audre are like a mother-daughter Thelma and Louise, with your museums and road trips and rallies. Travis Scott at Radio City.”
Eva preened, deservedly smug. “Audre’s a great kid. She got the best of me and her dad.”
“What’s he like?” Shane knew he was going too far.
“Travis Scott?”
“Audre’s dad.”
Eva sat back in the booth, hard. She grimaced and massaged a temple with her knuckles. “He’s stable.”
Shane went further. “Where is he?”
“You tell me. Where do men go when they’re done?” Eva’s eyes blazed. “He’s none of your business. You don’t know me anymore.”
“I know too much,” he said, his words weighted with old pain. The kind that makes a home on the fringes of your thoughts forever.
“You don’t,” she sighed. “I’m not who I was. And when I look back, I’m horrified.”
“You were just trying to survive,” said Shane. “When you’re drowning, you’ll do anything to get air.”
Eva studied her black mani, her expression maddeningly blank. And then Shane’s brain ordered him to utter the dumbest sentence ever.
“I’ve been meaning to call you.”
Hearing himself say this, Shane knew he deserved Eva’s incredulous, outraged brow raise. She looked equally likely to flip the table or die laughing.
“Riveting,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to try lash extensions.”
Shane tried again. “I couldn’t call you, because I was too fucked to make rational decisions. Things were bad for me for years.”
“Please,” she scoffed, “you’re one of the most celebrated writers of our generation.”
“And one of the drunkest,” he said. “Look, fame doesn’t save you. It just means that fans try to hack your Pornhub account to get your credit card info, track your whereabouts, and show up at your New Zealand Airbnb in revealing clubwear.”
“Revealing clubwear? I’m struggling to understand your demo.”
“You got grown men out here in witch hats. The nerve of you.”
“And why don’t you just stream Pornhub, like a civilized person?”
Shane looked offended. “Viruses.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “part of AA is making amends. I wanted to be permanently clean before I ever contacted you again. Now I’m ready.”
“Oh, so you contact me when you’re ready? You’re arrogant enough to think I want to talk to you?”
Shane looked her squarely in the eye. “Yeah. I am.”
“Fuck you.” Eva grabbed her bag and stood up.
“Don’t go,” he blurted out, halting her with his pleading eyes. “Please. I know what I did was unforgivable. I broke our promise. And now I can explain why.”
“No you don’t. I’m good!” She wasn’t good. She was trembling and it killed him, knowing her anguish was his fault.
It always was, he thought.
“We have unfinished business,” he said. “You know we do. We’ve made careers off it.”
Eva sat back down. The tension rippled between them, charging the air and stretching for seconds that felt like hours. Shane was praying she’d speak—but she just sat there, fuming and staring down at the table. Slowly, she began ripping her napkin into pieces, her mouth set in a tight, narrow line.
When she finally looked at him, her glare was a conflagration.
“We didn’t make careers. I made a career,” she whisper-yelled. “You drunk-wrote four classics? I have to write a shitty book a year to survive. You can’t be bothered to tour? I have to constantly promote. You’re philosophically opposed to social media? I have to post all day to stay relevant. You’re lucky I don’t take a selfie with you for likes!”
“In this lighting?”
In AA, Shane would diffuse tension with a joke. Luckily for him, Eva was too lost in her rant to hear it.
“And I’ve never even been to New Zealand! I spend all my time churning out Cursed! I owe Cece another one, and I don’t have a single idea, and now I’m gonna go broke, and even worse? I keep back-burnering my dream book!”
“What’s your dream book?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “The point is, I work my ass off. While you, with minimal effort, have become a legend.”
“I’m only a legend ’cause I’m mysterious.”
“You’re a legend ’cause you write about me.” She grabbed her milkshake back, spilling a bit on her hand. Distractedly, she sucked it off.
Shane’s brain left their conversation for a few agonizing moments.
“You capitalized off of my trauma,” she raged. “A time when I was in crisis. Not lovable. Not Eight.”
Shane stared at her, eviscerated. Not lovable. Eva had no idea the effect she’d had on him. How he saw her. How could she not know?
“Eight’s lovable because you were.” His voice was firm, definite. “You can’t imagine what you were like then.”
“I know what I was like.”
“You don’t.” Shane went dead serious. “You burst into my solitude, demanding to be seen. You were overwhelming. Just wild and weird and brilliant, and I never had a choice. I liked everything about you. Even the scary parts. I wanted to drown in your fucking bathwater.”
Eva opened her mouth to speak. He shook his head, silencing her.
“I idealize you in fiction because I idealized you in real life,” he continued. “It is male-gazing, you’re right. And I’m sorry. But I can only write my shit my way.”
“It’s my shit!” Eva pounded a fist on the table. At the next table over, a family looked up from their menus.
“You get to decide who owns what?” asked Shane, voice rising. “I’ve written four novels. You’ve written fourteen! A whole series, in which you put a Creole hex on me.”
She burst out in a mirthless laugh. “If I could hex you, you think I’d stop at roasting you in books?”
“If I’m a vampire, at least let me do cool shit! I spend the whole series cowering in castles, while my cross-between-Serena-Williams-and-Wonder-Woman witch soul mate gets to fight for truth and justice. The only thing Sebastian’s good at is—”
“Stop!” she interrupted. “Those scenes pay my mortgage.”
Shane said nothing and quietly took a swig of water. His devilish grin showed behind the glass.
“I will throw this milkshake at you right now—think I won’t?”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“Look,” said Eva, cheeks aflame. “No one was supposed to read Cursed. I wrote it for myself, to get over you. I cast myself as a superhero to give me strength I didn’t feel. And made you a useless fuckboy, because I’m petty. But it turned into a career, and I’m stuck with us.”
“Are you, though? Vampires die all the time. What about stakes and sunlight and shit?”
“My vamps,” she started haughtily, “can only die from silver scalpels marinated in garlic paste from a very particular vine during the summer solstice on a leap year.”
“Exactly.” A smirk played at the corners of Shane’s mouth. “Ever wonder why you made it so hard to kill me?”
“Because I have private school to pay for! Why do you keep writing about me?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Apparently not.”
“I’m not just writing about you,” said Shane. “I’m writing to you.”
His words hung in the air a moment—bold and impossible to misconstrue. He hesitated, wondering how she’d react. Telling the truth was something he always did, with no regard for how he was received. But Eva’s thoughts mattered.
“I wrote my books like you were the only one who’d ever read them,” he continued carefully. “My books did what I couldn’t.”
Eva’s breath slowed. “Which was what?”
“Talk to you,” he said. “And when I read yours, I knew you were reading mine. You put in so many clues. I mean, Gia has to strike her enemies eight times with her broom to kill them.” A shadow of a smile passed over his face. “Even when you were ripping me to shreds, it felt good. Like we still had our secrets.”
Eva’s mouth parted slightly, her brows knitting together. And Shane started lightly scratching his biceps, the stubble of his jawline. Neither of them was emotionally prepared for this confession.
When he felt Eva watching him, Shane stilled. Boldly, he met her gaze and got caught there, a breath too long. A charge passed between them, flickered, and faded.
There’s an alternate universe where I never left, he thought.
“Can I be honest?” asked Eva.
“Please.”
“I cried for two weeks when I found out I was having a daughter.” Her voice was barely audible. “I was terrified she’d be like me. My only goal is making sure Audre’s world is unicorns and rainbows. And it is. When she’s sad, she reads Shonda Rhimes’s Year of Yes, listens to the Hamilton soundtrack, and moves on. She doesn’t hurt like I do. Did.” Eva corrected herself. “My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother? They’re all crazy, and it runs in my family. But it stopped with me.”
Eva paused. “No one knows about my life before New York. You showing up like this…It’s a trigger.”
“I understand,” conceded Shane. “And I’ll go. But can you tell me one thing?”
Eva shrugged vaguely.
“You happy?”
She looked dismayed. It was like no one had ever asked her that, or it was something she’d never thought about. Or both.
“I’m fine.”
“How’s your head?”
“I said I’m fine,” she spat, her eyes welling up. She dug her knuckles into a temple again, the pain obvious.
“That bad? Still?”
Eva’s silence was answer enough. And her tears, threatening to spill.
“Fuck.” Shane’s face was a mask of worry. “Do you have good doctors? Do you have a…a…man or someone who helps? Does anyone take care of you?”
“Does anyone take care of you?” she exploded.
“I mean, no.”
“Then why are you assuming that I need help?”
Eva began snapping a rubber band encircling her wrist. It was sharp enough to redden her skin. He’d noticed her doing this before, at the Brooklyn Museum. Watching the compulsive way she pulsed the band against her skin, a flash of unease coursed through him. He wanted to ask her what she was doing.
But I already know, don’t I?
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Shane. “I just hoped you had some support.”
“Well, I don’t. God, why did you come here?”
Overwhelmed by her reaction, he said, “To apologize.”
“Please don’t,” she whispered. “I can’t talk about that night…”
And then a tear fell. Shane shot up straight in his seat. Reaching across the table, he gently held her wrist.
“Genevieve,” he said. And she began to sob.
“Don’t follow me.” She grabbed her bag and fled the diner.
It took willpower Shane hadn’t known he had not to run after her.
Instead, he watched her from the window as she stormed down the sidewalk lining Eastern Parkway, getting smaller and smaller, until she turned a corner and disappeared. With every step she took, the years melted away. Shane was hurtling backward into his teenage self, before the books, the success, the travel. Back in the dark ages, when his loneliness was like quicksand, when he’d ruin himself to make it stop—and the only bright spot in all of this was loving a beautiful girl with demons ferocious enough to slay his own.
For seven days, a million Junes ago.