Seven Days in June by Tia Williams

Chapter 11

An Aggressive Act of Personal Reinvention

SHANE HALL WAS RUNNING FOR HIS LIFE.

The diner disaster had scrambled his brain. His heart was shredded. His stomach was in knots. In a former life, he would’ve dealt with this in dangerous ways. But due to his recent aggressive act of personal reinvention, he was no longer a drinker. He was a runner. A capital-R runner, and you knew he was serious, because he bought Nike Vaporflys, the sneakers the Olympics almost banned for giving runners an advantage. And he was wearing the Garmin Forerunner 945 GPS watch to monitor his pace in pro-marathoner style. Most notable, though, were his elite-grade compression socks, which were recommended by Usain Bolt in an old Esquire he’d dog-eared in some midwestern JetBlue VIP lounge. His gear was fire.

Shane didn’t half-ass anything. He ran as hard as he drank.

Never mind that in AA, he was warned of the dangers of cross-addiction—when you put down a drink and pick up a new obsession, like evangelism or multilevel-marketing schemes or rescuing pit bulls. And fine, Shane knew that his running habit bordered on extreme. But what new addictions could possibly scare him? Not having a drink was excruciating, and he beat that. Not having anything else would be easy.

So Shane ran and ran, until the steady, hypnotic rhythm of his footfalls and his modulated, focused breathing coaxed him into calm.

Because he’d had a day.

The sun was just about to set beyond the Upper Manhattan skyline, and Shane was trying to outrun it. He’d already run the six miles from his rental in the West Village, down the West Side Highway and around South Street Seaport. Now he was looping his way back up. At first, his pace was too aggressive, too swift—but for the past ten minutes or so, he’d started slowing a bit. He was right on the cusp of exhaustion. But that was what kept Shane going, that flicker of uncertainty, the threat of burning out.

And he had to keep going, because he wanted to be home before nightfall. He couldn’t be away from the apartment for longer than an hour. He’d told Eva to come by if she needed him. And ever since she’d fled, crying, from the diner that morning, he’d been waiting for her. He probably wouldn’t hear from her—but on the off chance that she wanted to talk, he had to be there.

He’d been the one to make her cry. It was what he always did, destroying the people he loved the most, the things that made him happiest. Seeing her that upset again, knowing he was the cause of it—it had triggered an old panic that was too deep-seated to shake. He had to fix it. He couldn’t let that be the last time they saw each other.

Chin down, eyes trained ahead of him, he blazed his way down the West Side Highway running path—the glittering Hudson River winding lazily to his left, with the New Jersey skyline stretching beyond it. It was thickly hot, the kind of heat that makes you listless and lethargic. Visibly drained tourists draped themselves over benches, while the path was crowded with barely moving senior joggers and mommy groups ambling by with designer strollers. Everyone but Shane was on chill mode.

Was it selfish to hope for even a second more of Eva’s time when he was the reason she wasn’t okay? Probably. Was it reckless and childish to have sent her all those texts? Fuck yes. But he’d analyzed the situation too many times since this morning, and he didn’t know what else to do.

I shouldn’t have come at all, thought Shane, almost colliding with a twenty-something couple who were somehow successfully jogging while sharing EarPods.

But he had come. He’d started another fire. This time, he’d stay and put it out.

Slowing his pace, Shane glanced up at the horizon to check the sunset. The predusk sky was vivid with waves of fuchsia and lavender, and not for the first time since getting clean, he was struck by how alive the world looked. He was suddenly so alert. It was how he’d been as a little kid, before he’d started anesthetizing himself. Back then, he’d felt things too deeply for his own good.

One time, while waiting in a Kmart checkout line, five-year-old Shane had seen some guy steal a waffle iron from a woman’s cart while she wasn’t looking. His mind had quietly spiraled over it. What if waffles were all she had to feed her thirteen badass kids because their dad squandered her modest bank-teller salary on fantasy-football bets and scratch cards? What if her life depended on that waffle iron? He’d obsessed about it for days.

And snakes used to ruin him. Just the idea of them. Shane couldn’t bear the thought of those delicate-looking reptiles trying their hardest to travel around their patch of forest while legless and footless. It broke his heart! They were so unfairly handicapped. He used to obsessively sketch pictures of snakes with four legs, until it occurred to him that he was, in fact, drawing lizards.

The world was too loud for little-boy Shane. What he didn’t know was that he was training himself to be a deeply empathetic writer—understanding nuanced emotion, spying humanity in unexpected places, seeing past the obvious. He was taking notes for his future self, who would write it all down. Every fucking thing he saw. And thank God he was good at it. If nothing else, writing helped organize the chaos in his brain—even if it had only come in four intense bursts over the past fifteen years.

I’m already thinking of my career in past tense, he realized, speeding up a bit.

Shane wrote his books hoping to smooth out the jagged edges of his life. Which didn’t exactly work. If reviewers were to be believed, his novels could rearrange the way a reader thought, sparking existential epiphanies. But he could never reach himself. In fact, his biggest triumphs were followed by his biggest benders. No matter how dizzying his professional highs, Shane just couldn’t resist the pull of the tide sweeping him out. Self-destruction was always imminent.

No, if writing had been the cure, the past fifteen years would’ve looked very different. He wouldn’t have taken so long to get sober. He might’ve picked a permanent place to live, put down actual roots. Invested in Seamless or Spotify. He’d have gotten serious about the business of living.

And he would’ve found Eva long ago.

Stretching ahead of Shane was Pier 25. Families swarmed the turf overlooking the water, taking pics or waiting to hop in rented kayaks. Shane glanced over at the dads with toddlers on their shoulders, while moms juggled cell phones, snacks, stuffed animals, and juice boxes in two hands. It was all so exotic. He’d always appreciated families from a distance, looked at them like they were a fascinating experiment: all that intimacy and domesticity couldn’t have been more foreign.

Maybe it was the disjointed way Shane grew up, but he didn’t know how to cultivate that sense of home. So he rejected it. He always lived alone, far from crowds and populated cities—especially ones that reminded him of DC—preferably near the ocean, and rarely longer than six months. Rentals only. There was a freedom in staying at places that weren’t his. Shane reveled in that vaguely disorienting vibe of bed-and-breakfasts, Airbnbs, somebody’s seaside shack—just-passing-through places where things were a little bit off. Lamps instead of overhead lighting. Sheets aggressively scented with some foreign fabric softener. Jumpy ceiling fans and dusty bookshelves with eclectic ’80s paperbacks (often historical westerns featuring covers with chesty women and sometimes a horse). It was impossible to get too comfortable in a place that kept reminding you it wasn’t yours.

And it was impossible for anyone to know him, either. Which was perfect. During his lost years, he hadn’t wanted people to see how unstable he was. Of course, sobriety had shown him that everyone was a little bit off. His shit was just closer to the surface.

What’s wrong with you?Eva had asked that first day. Shane had been fielding this question for years. But when Eva said it, it was the first time he’d actually given it any real thought. She’d asked with curiosity, not judgment.

Shane was a complete stranger and confessed to breaking his arm on purpose—but she didn’t write him off or condemn him or, worse, laugh. She didn’t try to convince him to stop. Eva’s generosity was stunning—she just wanted to know why.

And he would’ve told her. But back then, he couldn’t articulate the reasons why he did that to himself.

Keeping a steady pace, Shane powered past City Vineyard, the riverfront restaurant with its dazzling downtown skyline views and digital nomads sipping rosé in plastic glasses. The sweet, fermented scent of bar wafted over him on the dry, hot breeze, driving him to run faster. With every heavy footfall, every forward swing of his upper body, the bones in his left forearm reverberated—a low thrum, just enough so he could never forget his old habit. And what, exactly, was wrong with him.

The first time it happened was when Shane was seven, the terrible event that had sent him hurtling from foster home to foster home, where he learned new crimes, new dysfunctions, new ways to be unloved. That was one piece of it. The other was every time he broke his arm, it hurt, but when it dulled, he’d be shot through with this remarkable insight about himself. It was the only time he saw who he was, crystal clear.

The second time, he was a third grader in a DC juvenile detention center, and a guard was mercilessly kicking his ass for sleeping through lunch. Shane kept fighting back, a mad-as-hell Mighty Mouse with rapid-fire fists. Finally, the guard knocked him off his feet with a quick, decimating blow to the jaw—and Shane purposely used his arm to break his fall. Bone, broken.

Oh, he realized. I’m a person who doesn’t know when to stop.

Another time, he was a twelve-year-old in the schoolyard. In a school full of rowdy, troubled misfits, Shane already had a reputation for being the craziest. In front of a crowd, some girl dared an older kid to crack him over the head with a Snapple bottle. Just to see what Shane would do. In a flash, Shane had the older dude in a headlock and then flung them both against a brick wall—elbow first. Bone, broken.

Oh, he realized. I’m a person people watch for entertainment.

Later, at seventeen, a loudmouth knucklehead was bullying the new kid. And to save her, Shane whacked him in the face with his casted arm. Bone, broken.

Oh, he realized. I’m a person who’ll do anything for this girl.

Before Eva had so dramatically collided with him on the bleachers, Shane had felt like he was slipping away. And there was certainly no school counselor, no parent, no concerned social worker grounding him to the earth. Then he met Eva, and she breathed the same air. She stuck to his bones, imprinted herself on his brain—and thoroughly rearranged his world, in the best way.

Stop thinking about the past. Start thinking about how you’re going to explain yourself to this woman.

Shane was mired in these thoughts when his phone vibrated on his arm (where it was slotted in his Nathan iPhone armband, rated Best Accessory of 2019 by RunnersWorld.com). He froze abruptly on the path. A few paces behind Shane, a group of baroquely mustachioed and muscle-bound Bushwick dudes skidded to a halt seconds before they would have body-slammed into him.

“The fuck, bro?”

The near collision didn’t register, because Shane was too busy praying this was it. The moment. Eva finally wanted to talk. He issued a silent plea to the universe that he was right, and snatched the phone out of his armband.

It was Marisol, Datuan, Reginald, and Ty. Four of his favorite students had texted him, one after the other.

Wiping sweat from his forehead and drooping with disappointment, Shane zigzagged through the joggers to a small stretch of Emerald City–green grass to the left of the path. Finding an empty spot, he collapsed on his back, exhausted and winded.

So Eva still wasn’t speaking to him. But hearing from his kids was second best.

Like he did with Ty, Shane promised all the students he mentored that he’d always be available. These were at-risk kids. None of them had real parental figures, and he’d happily stepped into the position.

Shane strongly doubted he’d have his own children. He didn’t trust his DNA. And the question of who his birth parents were—well, he had a feeling it was better not knowing. But for a misanthropic nomad with no professional training in mentoring teenagers—and whose own teenage years could’ve inspired a chilling docuseries on Vice TV—he owned the role. It fit him almost too comfortably. Shane’s life as a teacher hit harder and was more rewarding than making it onto a bestsellers list.

He was probably too attached to surrogate-parenting other people’s kids. There’d been a few moments, like when Bree, his favorite student in Houston, was strong-armed by a cop after a neighbor called the police on her loud-but-innocent sweet-sixteen party, when his investment spilled over into something unhealthy. His reaction was thunderous, and it was the first (and only) time he felt unsteady in sobriety. But he loved those kids. They needed him. And Shane never actually slipped, so it was worth the risk.

Today, 7:57 PMMarisol

MR. HALL!! Is cat food poisonous when people eat it? Mistakes were made.

Today, 7:59 PMDatuan

Wuts good. Funny shit. Principal Parker thought WTF meant Well That’s Fantastic.

Today, 8:02 PMReginald

Sup broke up wit Tazjha shes a bad GF told her actions speak louder than wombats*wombs*WORDS *WORDS *WORDSFucken autocorrect

Today, 8:06 PMTy

WydI like the planetarium

Shane’s brows crinkled in surprise. Ty didn’t like anything! And if he did, he certainly never articulated it. He barely articulated anything at all. Shane’s entire goal in setting up the internship at the planetarium was to get him invested in something, show him what it was like to pursue a passion. Shane glanced up at the sky. He wanted to be home before night fell, in case Eva stopped by. He had time for a call.

“Ty! What’s good, dog? I got your text.”

“Yeah.”

“You like the planetarium internship?”

“It’s aight.”

“Tell me about it. Why do you like it?”

Silence.

“Ty?”

“I’m shrugging.”

Shane sighed. He really needed to work with Ty on his communication skills.

“You just said, ‘I like the planetarium.’ That’s a powerful declarative statement. When you express an opinion, you should be prepared to support it with viable evidence. You enjoy it, based on what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just chill. Like, I don’t know why.” Ty paused for a moment. “I mean, in the sky theater…”

“Sky theater!”

“That’s what Mr. James calls it. In the sky theater, it’s like I’m a real astronomer. Like, for real for real. I can see the sun’s path from east to west. Look up close at the moon.”

“That’s incredible, Ty. I know the moon’s your shit.”

“Yeah, and today we learned about bizarre stellar objects. Like neutron stars, pulsars, black holes. And there’s…there’s…a girl.”

Shane smiled. “Oh, word?”

“Yeah. She be in there sometimes. She draws or whatever. Today she drew a white dwarf.”

Shane stared blankly into the sky. “But why?”

“A white dwarf’s a star that’s exhausted its nuclear fuel.”

“Ohhh. What’s her name? You talk to her?”

“Nah. I can’t talk to her.”

“She bad, huh?”

More silence.

“Ty, are you shrugging?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen. You’re smart. You’re loyal. You’re one of the most interesting kids I’ve ever met. You never know, this girl might go to the planetarium every day, hoping that you’ll speak to her. Just try.”

“Can I ask you something.” As usual, Ty’s questions sounded like statements. “How you know when you’re really feeling a girl.”

Shane sat up a bit, leaning back on his elbows. Liking the planetarium girl was monumental for a deeply insecure kid like Ty and must be dealt with gently.

“When it’s real,” declared Shane, “you won’t even have to ask the question. It just hits you. Kind of like being shot.”

“Shot,” repeated Ty, sounding doubtful.

So much for gently, thought Shane.

“Hear me out,” said Shane. “It’s like you know something dramatic happened. But you don’t know your insides have been ripped open until after the fact. That’s what falling in love is like. When it’s real, you don’t fall in love with any awareness. You don’t get a say. You get hit fucking hard and then process it later. You know?”

More silence.

“I ain’t tryna get shot, fam.”

“Ty, it was a metaphor.”

“Yeah, but like, I just wanna ask her if she wants to go with me to Cold Stone or whatever. Get some ice cream,” grumbled Ty. “You’re doing too much.”

“See, you don’t even need my help! You got a plan,” said Shane encouragingly. “Just ask her out tomorrow. And be confident with it. If you believe you’re that dude, she will, too.”

“Maybe I should ask her if she’s lactose intolerant first.”

“Under no circumstances should you do that.”

“Nah, you right.”

“Listen, you got this,” said Shane. “Hit me back, let me know how it goes.”

“I’ll get at you. Good lookin’ out,” said Ty, and then he clicked off.

Shane slipped his phone back in his armband, buzzing with hope for that kid. Ty would be fine.

The sun had just set, and there was still a chance—an off chance, a slim-to-none chance—that Eva would come. He set off jogging through the bendy West Village streets, back to Horatio Street.

There was a strong possibility that the diner was the last time he’d ever see Eva. But he couldn’t help wanting more. Seeing her again was stressful and world tilting—but underneath, it was good. Too good. On the flight to New York, Shane had imagined a million scenarios of how their meetup would go. He’d hoped he wouldn’t feel anything.

But like he’d just told Ty, he didn’t really have a say in it, did he?