Seven Days in June

by Tia Williams

“When I feel lonely, I scroll through Tinder and remind myself what I’m missing. Which is dudes with coconut-oiled beards all posing next to the same graffitied wall in Dumbo with profiles written entirely in emojis. And I remember that I’m not lonely. I’m alone. When I’m comatose from writing and mothering, when I’m hurting too badly to cook, talk, or smile, I curl up with ‘alone’ like a security blanket. Alone doesn’t care that I don’t shave my legs in the winter. Alone never gets disappointed by me.” Eva sighed. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in.”

“Listen, caring about things don’t make you soft. It makes you alive.”

“The burden isn’t on me to explain it, Rich. The burden’s on y’all to fix it. Good luck.”

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.

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.

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.

Shane paused. “I’m gonna say something controversial.” “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen The Lion King.” “It’s just…victors write history, right? What if Mufasa was the bad guy? And we don’t know, ’cause he’s the star of the story? ‘Circle of Life’ feels like propaganda to put working-class animals in their place. Like, shut the fuck up, you’re meant to be eaten. Maybe I’m buggin’.”

“If you have the opportunity to make a moment meaningful, why not take it?”

“Oh, bé. If I can’t make them stay, you can’t. Mercier women are cursed. Cursed.”

“Miles Davis said there are two categories of thinking: the truth and white bullshit. The national anthem is white bullshit.”

“Destigmatizing male vulnerability is the first step toward rebuilding the absolute ruin that straight men have left the world in.”

Finally, Shane angled the microphone up and spoke five words. “This is for the misfit.”

Maybe they’d always be disasters—but couldn’t they support each other and grow together? No one was perfect! And maybe that was what real, adult love was. Being fearless enough to hold each other close no matter how catastrophic the world became. Loving each other with enough ferocity to quell the fears of the past. Just fucking being there.