Seven Days in June by Tia Williams

Chapter 15

Dream House

FOR TWO CYNICAL SKEPTICS LIKE EVA AND SHANE, THE DREAM HOUSE, UPONentrance, was a bit too earnest.

DREAM HOUSE RULES

Welcome to the DREAM HOUSE. No smoking, vaping, eating, drinking, cell phone use, picture-taking, talking above a whisper, touching, or exchanging of bodily fluids permitted. This is a safe space, don’t make it weird. Please store valuables in a locker. If you’re in a PRIVATE room, feel free to close the door—but there are no locks. Each person is assigned a freshly washed pillow and blanket (via our eco-friendly laundry service!), please toss in the linen basket when you’re done. When your hour is up, your Sleep Guide will give you a gentle nudge. Please do not strike the Sleep Guide, he/she/they is/are simply doing his/her/their job.

And what’s your job, you ask? To do three things: Relax! Restore! Recharge!

“And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” —Hamlet

Upon entry, a gazelle-like Sleep Guide handed them freshly laundered plush pillows and blankets. Assuming that they were a couple, she led them toward a private room. Tucked in the first two floors of a classic Edwardian brownstone, the warren of rooms was, indeed, a soporific sleep chamber. Silence was optional, so some light whispers could be heard above the soft, ambient, hard-to-place tonal soundtrack. The smoky-sweet scent of incense wafted unobtrusively through the halls, each room bathed in darkness except for the drowsiness-inducing images projected on the walls. One room seethed with gently pulsing blue dots. Another room glowed burnt sienna, thanks to a crackling bonfire projected on the wall; it was so realistic, Eva almost felt the toasty warmth as she walked by.

People dozed on the floor, lying on massive body pillows, their skin glowing in different colors. In one room, a woman snored softly. A guy in an ill-fitting suit lay next to her, lips murmuring a soundless chant. Or prayer. Maybe he was reciting the lyrics to Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts.” Who knew? The point was, he was relaxed.

Eva couldn’t imagine dozing off within the next hour. Sleep called for five milligrams of Ambien, an ice pack, a painkiller shot, and her white-noise app. But the trippy-hippie vibe was soothing. Damn near sublime. The best part was that it was an unexpected twist. Like Alice toppling down the rabbit hole or Dorothy nodding out in Oz’s poppy fields. When she set out to see Shane this morning, she definitely hadn’t imagined ending up in a hazy, hypnotic fun house. At 2:50 p.m.

With her daughter, her career, and her life in tatters, Eva had no business wasting an hour in this place. But here she was, lost to the world. It felt like what happened here didn’t count in real life.

And then there was Shane.

She wasn’t ready to say goodbye again. She was aching to make their afternoon last. There was no way to pretend that her day with Shane, though platonic, wasn’t the biggest thrill she’d had in forever. It was so easy. Scarily so.

Eva felt a jolt in her personality around him. Shane was pulling her back to her real self; all the goofy, random, raw, dark moments she usually hid were on full display. And he drank it all in. The give-and-take of luring him in and allowing herself to be lured: God, it was exhilarating. She’d forgotten the way they existed in each other’s space. That old current was still there, buzzing in the air between them.

Eva was dizzy with it, wanted to suck it into her veins. She felt daring and flirty—jolted awake after too many years of being afraid to feel anything. And if she never saw Shane again after today, she’d be fine. Today was enough.

Stay tuned for this and other lies on Fox News at eight, she thought.

When they arrived at their room, Eva spread their blankets on the matted floor, Shane fluffed the pillows, and they lay down. And that was when two cynical skeptics became very, very sleepy.

Eyes feeling heavy, Eva glanced around the cozy (if borderline-claustrophobic) room. It was the size of a modest walk-in closet. Neon lights reading NIGHT NIGHT decorated the ceiling, pulsing a low, hazy violet-blue glow. Four beats on, four beats off, like a heartbeat. The color turned their skin a surreal, soothing violet.

Eva turned to face Shane, fluffing the pillow under her cheek. He lay flat on his back, one hand tucked behind his head. She watched him watching the flashing words—soon his lids shuttered, his lashes resting on his cheekbones.

“I need a room like this in my house,” he murmured.

“Where’s your house?”

“Well, yeah, I need to get one first.” He opened his eyes, turning his head toward her. “I could never decide where I wanted to stay. Before I started teaching, I’d move twice a year. Nairobi, Siargao, Copenhagen, anyplace near water. Laos. I went on a motorcycle trek there once. Vietnam has the most dramatic terrain. Jungles and mountains and waterfalls. Technicolor-green grass. You feel like the topography’s happening to you. Did you know over there they call the Vietnam War the American War?”

“As well they should,” said Eva, cozying her cheek into the pillow. “What’s your favorite place?”

“Taghazout, a shipping village in Morocco,” he said, no hesitation. “A nine-year-old kid taught me how to surf there.”

“Your life sounds made up, I swear.”

“It’s true!” he insisted. “And I was good. I ripped my stomach open on coral, though. Probably should’ve gotten stitches, but I had to act cool in front of this little dude, who was fearless. He was surfing before he could talk. Missing a pinky finger. Tatted up. A fucking pirate. Anyway, I duct-taped it together and it healed crazy.”

“There wasn’t any Neosporin in this town? Let me see the scar.”

It was almost pitch black, but Eva could feel Shane’s smirk.

“You’re asking me to take off my shirt?”

“God, no.” She bit her lip. “Just pull it up.”

“You asking or telling?”

“Telling.”

He looked at her for a moment with an air-crackling gaze, then reached behind his back and pulled his shirt off completely. In the dark, she made out a puffy, jagged scar snaking across his stomach. More vividly, she saw his strong arms and chest. And his lightly muscled abs, and all that smooth deep-sienna skin stretching down, down, to the barest happy trail disappearing into his jeans. Jesus.

Eva wanted to suck the skin there so badly. Just above his jeans.

“Why are you such a thirst trap?”

“You forced me to do this!” Shane whispered into the dark, pulling his shirt back over his head. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t sleep,” she murmured. “I’m distracted.”

“Why?” He turned his head to face her. And then their eyes locked in silent conversation. It was all so dreamlike. Minutes were melting into each other. Their blinks became slower, the two of them wearing syrupy, satisfied smiles.

Finally, Eva delivered an answer that neither of them believed. “I’m trying to memorize this room. It’s good material; maybe it’ll show up in a book,” she said, yawning faux drowsily. “Honestly, as stressful as writing is, I can’t imagine not doing it.”

“It’s heady, right?” he muttered, eyes focused on her mouth.

“Yeah, the power’s so good. Making complete strangers laugh, cry, get turned on. It’s better than sex.”

“Is it, though?”

“I wouldn’t remember, actually,” she admitted. “I’m at the sexual equivalent of rock bottom. It’s been ages.”

“You? But you’re such a filthy writer.”

“I have a filthy imagination,” she corrected.

And sometimes it’s enough, she thought. Mostly, it’s lonely.

Cece had once diagnosed Eva as touch-starved. (One of her authors wrote a self-help book about it.) When someone went too long without touch, they became hypersensitive to the slightest graze. There was truth to it. Last weekend, Eva had almost had an orgasm when her hairstylist shampooed her. And her hairstylist was a grandmother of six.

Eva had been consciously avoiding Shane’s touch all day. If he so much as brushed up against her, she might explode.

“I’m at rock bottom, too,” said Shane. “I’ve never had sober sex.”

Eva gasped. “That long? Why?”

Shane didn’t know how to answer this. He’d had a lot of sex, with too many women, in increasingly depraved ways, a lot of it good, most of it a blur—and it was a relief to stop. Normal, healthy people didn’t use sex as a post-vodka chaser.

“Never got around to it,” he said.

“I don’t miss it,” Eva said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Honestly, I’m practically a virgin again. It’d probably hurt.”

“I’m so backed up, it’d be over in two seconds.”

“Good thing we’re not having sex.”

“I, for one, am relieved,” said Shane, with a wolfish smile.

Eva giggled into her palm, despite herself. “Why is it still so easy to talk to you?”

Shane gazed at her until the glint in his eye faded a bit. “Always was. It’s just who we are.”

“Do you remember everything?” she whispered. “About us?”

It took him a while to answer. “It’s funny. The past decade is a blur, but I remember every detail of that week.”

“I was hoping I’d romanticized it over the years. That we weren’t real.” Her words sounded delicate, breakable.

There was the quietly hypnotic, faint sound of a piano, and the incense swirled softly. And then Eva felt a familiar pull. Just like when they were seventeen, there was no space between them. There was an overwhelming need to get closer, always.

Unthinking, Eva slipped her hand into his. Shane squeezed it and then brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss into her palm. She gasped, electricity tearing through her. It was the slightest touch, but she felt it everywhere.

Eva had been imprisoned in pain for so long, she’d forgotten how good feeling good was. Her entire body roused. Suddenly, she was aware of everything—her skin, her cells, the bones under her skin. Heart fluttering, core throbbing.

Touch-starved.

Shane watched her reaction with lidded eyes. Then he lightly ran his lips along the inside of her wrist. She let out the tiniest whimper, her back arching. It was electric.

Breathless and embarrassed by her reaction, she sat up, burying her face in her hands. No. They were in a public space. Behind an unlocked door. She was a mother! And Shane was a Bold-Faced Name. Were they really fated to get caught dry-humping at an art-world pop-up? The welcome sign said NO TOUCHING! If they got caught, Book Twitter would implode. Audre would fling herself into the East River.

But then she opened her eyes. There was Shane, gazing up at her, looking for all the world like the reckless, irresistible boy he’d once been—but now with experience and grown-man gravitas and a rugged North African surfing scar and the most fuckable crinkles around his eyes—and nothing mattered.

There was no hell she wouldn’t risk for this man. And he knew it.

“Come here,” he said.

Eva straddled him, her hair falling in his face. Shane ran his hands up the backs of her thighs and over her ass, and then, not gently, he gripped her hips and pulled her down against him. Their lips were inches away from each other.

“Twenty questions,” he whispered.

“Go.”

“Why’d you really come to see me?”

“To ask for the favor.”

“Liar.” Shane tossed her over onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. Instinctively, her legs drew up, wrapping around his waist. “Why’d you come?”

“For you.” Her hips stuttered against his, desperate for friction. “Wanted you.”

“You got me,” he rasped, leaving hot, sucking kisses down her throat. “Your turn.”

Eva trembled beneath him, his mouth scrambling her brain. She couldn’t ask Shane the obvious questions (Where’d you go? Why’d you leave? How could you?). Over the years, she’d trained herself not to care about these answers. Besides, this moment wasn’t about him; it was about her. So she went for something easier.

“Do you ever think of me?”

Lightly, he ran his tongue along her neck, up to her ear, nibbling on her lobe. “I never learned how to stop.”

“Oh,” she said. And then shakily added, “Your turn.”

“So did you? Romanticize us?” asked Shane, eyes catching hers. “Or were we real?”

“We were real,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

“Then?” He ground himself against her and she moaned.

“Y-yes,”she gasped. “Then. And now.”

Abruptly, Shane freed her wrists and cradled her face. She slid her hands up his back, gripping his shoulders. Slowly, he lowered his face toward hers, then stopped. He dipped down, then paused. He’d been waiting a lifetime to have her like this, buzzing for him, craving him, desperate—and he wanted to savor it.

But she let out an impatient groan, digging her nails into his shoulders, and Shane caved. He crashed his mouth into hers, drawing her into a luscious, searing kiss. The delicious shock of it was enough to make Eva freeze, but then she melted into him, lost in the heat of his mouth, the slide of his tongue, the teasing nip of his teeth, until she was unable to form a coherent thought beyond yes and want and ShaneShaneShane. He kept at it, kissing her senseless. It went backward in intensity, slowing down to a soft, searing smolder—almost too hot to take.

They stopped only to catch their breath.

“One more question,” he said.

“We’re still playing?” She wet her lips with her tongue.

“Yeah.” Shane glanced toward the door, then back down at her. Eyes glinting in the dark wickedly. “Are you still bad?”

“Yes,” she said without thinking, reaching down to palm his dick, huge and hard in his jeans. She rubbed along the length of him, teasing out a low groan. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” he said, pushing her dress up and slipping off her strapless bra. Dipping down, he ran his soft, hot mouth along the swell of her breast, his teeth catching on her nipple. He swirled his tongue around it, sucking deliciously—and then, his stubble scraping her skin, he dragged his mouth to the other. Her helpless, shuddery gasps were making him so hard, he wondered how he’d survive this.

“Yeah,” he growled against her breast. “I’m still bad.”

“Why? T-tell me.”

Shane lifted his head, taking her in. Eva looked radiant, so slutty, with her dress pulled up under her arms, showing off sheer panties, curls everywhere, panting, trembling, lips raw and swollen from kissing. She had a bruise blossoming on her hip, where he’d gripped her.

“’Cause I’m old enough to know better,” said Shane, drawing her into a quick, dirty tongue kiss. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck you. Here.”

And then they tore into each other. Frantically, Shane managed to get her soaked panties off one leg, and Eva pushed down his jeans and boxers—but there was no time to get all the way naked. He dug into his wallet for an ancient condom (offering a silent prayer to several deities that it still worked) and slipped it on. Then, covering her with his tall, strong body, Shane sank into Eva with excruciating slowness, careful not to hurt her.

It did hurt, but the burn was exquisite. Wanting more, Eva cupped his ass and pushed him deeper. She gasped, and Shane kissed her quiet—driving into her with steady, deep strokes, and all she could do was take it, wave after wave of pleasure. When he felt her whole body begin to shudder against his, he slid his hand down between their sweat-slick, half-clothed bodies and dipped his middle finger over her clit. He rubbed her slowly but fucked her hard—and it was so good, so intense, that it sent her over the edge, shattering her to stillness.

And when Shane followed seconds later, he put his mouth to her ear and finally said it.

“Eva,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Eva. Eva.”

He uttered it like an incantation, the only name that ever mattered—and Eva, heart slamming into her ribs, clung to him in the violet-tinged darkness. Feeling both lost and found.

Later, Eva regretted it. Not the sex. She regretted leaving Shane there, alone, in that room. Getting up, throwing on her clothes, grabbing her bag, and rushing out. Not saying goodbye. But really, what did he expect?

Eva had trained herself not to care why Shane had abandoned her. Instead, she took it as a lesson. Ever since that day fifteen years ago, she’d never allowed herself to be left again. Husband, hookup, long-lost lover. It didn’t matter.

Eva always left first.