Chapter Text
When Shane got to the store the next morning, he was surprised to find Ilya already there waiting outside. He had his back to the front window with an enormous iced coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, sunglasses over his eyes. He pushed off the window and put the cigarette out when he saw Shane walking up.
“You’re not scheduled to come in until the afternoon,” Shane said as he put the key in the front door.
“Good morning, Hollander,” Ilya responded. Another coffee cup had appeared out of nowhere. He held it out to Shane. “Black coffee,” he said when Shane looked at it curiously. “Boring.”
“Thanks,” Shane said, taking the cup and pushing the door open. He looked over his shoulder at Ilya. “And, good morning.”
Ilya smiled at that. Shane found that he was disproportionately glad to see it.
“What are you doing?” A low voice asked from behind Shane.
He turned around and found Ilya leaning against the shelf, a grin on his face, strong arms folded across his strong chest. Looking very much like certain fantasies Shane had had about this specific back corner of the store. The way the shelves were arranged created a boundary between the corner and the rest of the store making it secluded, private. Plus it was a bit dark because the wiring in the overhead lights was old and for some reason the light here was always dimmer, no matter how many times his dad tried to fix it. So, naturally, Shane had often thought about what it would be like to be kissed here.
“You’re supposed to be watching the front of the store,” Shane said.
Ilya shrugged. “No one is here,” he said. “I’ll hear bell if anyone comes.” He nodded at the book Shane was clutching to his chest. “I was bored and what you are doing looks more fun. What is that?”
What Shane was doing was gathering books for the Pride Month display his parents let him put together for the front table every June. Which, of course, meant he’d started reading some of the books and lost track of time.
“Song of Achilles,” Shane said, turning the cover around so Ilya could see it. He’d read it twice already and had casually flipped it open to read a few of his favorite parts, but had gotten completely sucked into the story again. “It’s about Achilles and Patroclus.”
Ilya looked at him blankly.
“Ancient Greece,” Shane explained. “The Trojan War.” No signs of recognition from Ilya. “They fall in love, like huge, all-consuming, fated, tragic gay love.”
Ilya reached for the book, taking it from Shane’s hands. He thumbed through some of the pages. He read the back cover. He turned it over in his hands a few times. “So it is sad?” he asked. “The ending?”
“I mean, yeah, it is,” Shane said. “But the story is beautiful. The love between Achilles and Patroclus—” He cut himself off before he could say that he wanted to feel even a fraction of that sort of love someday, that he wanted to know what it was like to find someone whose soul he somehow already knew. He knew it would only make him sound naive and idealistic.
“I will read it,” Ilya said, tucking the book under his arm.
Shane didn’t argue that it was the store’s only copy and he needed it for his display. He let Ilya have it. He’d find another book to take its place. “Help me with the rest of these since you’re here,” he said, indicating the various piles of books he’d gathered on surrounding shelves.
Ilya picked up two of the piles and followed Shane back to the front of the store. The front table was currently a mix of new releases and spring-related titles. A placard stood over the center of the table proclaiming: Spring into a good book! Taped around the edges of it were colorful origami flowers Shane and his mom had made together.
For now, Shane set his Pride Month books aside under the counter. There were a few days left in May still and he needed to dig out some of the decorations he’d used for the table in previous years.
“So your parents know that you are…” Ilya said, setting the piles he’d carried down and starting to look through them.
“Gay,” Shane finished for him. There was a time, not all that long ago, when saying that word aloud about himself to a relative stranger would have triggered a full-blown panic attack, but now he only felt a slightly elevated heartbeat when he said the word. And he didn’t think that had anything to do with being ashamed or afraid of what Ilya might think about his sexuality. “Yeah, they know. Obviously.”
Ilya slid one book from the pile and then the next one, building a new pile with the same books. He’d stop every now and then to look at a cover or open the book to its first pages. He didn’t turn his attention from the books when he said, “And they are good about it?”
“They are,” Shane said.
Ilya only nodded, his eyes on an old paperback edition of Giovanni’s Room.
Shane took the books Ilya had already looked through and placed them with the others under the counter. “Um, what about you?” he asked while he was still safely down there placing a note on top of the stacks of books that said: FOR PRIDE DO NOT RESHELVE!!!
“I am not gay,” Ilya said, handing a few more books down to him.
Shane looked up at him as he took the books. “But you’re not…” God, he hoped he had not severely misread this entire thing.
“Straight?” Ilya finished for him. His face was soft with amusement. “No. I am bisexual.”
Shane let out the breath he’d been holding. “Okay, cool, yeah. That’s what I thought,” he said as he stood back up.
“What you thought?” Ilya asked curiously, his lips pressing together in a smile.
Shane sighed. “Shut up,” he said. “What about your parents then? Do they know about you? Are they good with it?”
The smile on Ilya’s face didn’t go away, but it changed. “Yes and no,” he said quietly. “Russia is not good with it.”
“Oh,” Shane said. “Yeah, of course. I know it’s not great for queer people there.”
Ilya laughed then. “No, it is not great,” he said.
“Is that why you needed to get out?” Shane asked.
Ilya kept his eyes on Shane’s face for a few seconds and then turned away. “I will take my break now, okay?” he said as he slid from his stool.
“Okay,” Shane answered. Not that it mattered. Ilya was already heading toward the back of the store.
The only book left on the counter now was the copy of Song of Achilles. Shane took one of the store’s bookmarks from the display and slipped it into the book at the opening page for Ilya, pushing the book to the side of the register.
“You seen Rozanov?” Shane’s dad asked a few days later as he was coming out of the back. He was carrying a box and dropped it unceremoniously onto the counter. Shane peered in, finding a pile of old paperbacks. Pulpy stuff. Romances and science fiction and westerns. Supermarket paperbacks from decades ago. His dad kept a special rotating rack for them by the counter and sold them for a few bucks each.
“He wasn’t in the back just now?” Shane asked. He stuck his hand into the box, lifting out a book with a truly astounding amount of tentacles on its front cover. It was unclear if it was romance or sci-fi. Maybe both. Shane let it fall back into the box before he could think too long about where the tentacles might go.
“No,” David said. “He was supposed to help me sort through these. Kid’s got a good eye for this stuff. Everything he picked for the rack last week sold.”
Shane smiled as if the compliment were for him. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere,” Shane said. “Maybe outside smoking?” He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Ilya that afternoon. He’d been helping Shane at the register during a busy period but when it got slow again, he’d gone off to do some reshelving of things customers had left in the wrong place. But that was over an hour ago and Shane realized he hadn’t heard or seen Ilya since.
“I checked and didn’t see him out there,” David said, shaking his head in that way that meant something he’d known was going to happen had finally happened.
“He wouldn’t just leave,” Shane said. Of course he wouldn’t. He would have at least said something to Shane, made up an excuse for why he had to leave early. Or maybe he would just leave without a word. What did Shane even know about Ilya? Every time he tried to ask him anything personal, he closed up, turned cold and remote.
Shane’s dad leaned forward, forearms resting on the counter. He looked at Shane like he was about to start lecturing about trust and reliability and good work ethic.
“Let me look for him,” Shane insisted before his dad could get going.
David raised his hands. “Alright,” he said. “If you find him, tell him I need him to pick out ten of these.” He nudged the box on the counter.
Shane nodded and watched his dad disappear again into the back.
Shane went to the front door first, poking his head out and looking up and down the sidewalk. No sign of Ilya. He checked the break room and, sure enough, his dad was right. No Ilya. He checked the alleyway out back. Nothing. He wandered the aisles of the bookstore, hoping to see a flash of curls, hoping to smell cigarettes and mint.
It was the rustling of pages that alerted Shane though. He found Ilya sitting on the floor, his back against a shelf of spy novels. It was an area on the far left side of the store, another spot that didn’t see very much traffic. The smell of dust and mildew hung in the air.
Ilya had The Song of Achilles open on his lap. He wasn’t very far into the book yet but he was bent over the page, reading closely. He hadn’t noticed Shane yet so Shane watched him. He would read for a few moments and then turn back a few pages, reading something there before returning to his original page and reading again.
“Hey,” Shane said softly.
Ilya swore in Russian like Shane had scared him and closed the book quickly.
He moved to stand up but Shane was already joining him on the floor. “My dad’s looking for you,” he said. “Needs your help with the pulp fiction stuff. He said you had a good eye.”
Ilya smiled. “Breasts, monsters, big horse,” he said, counting the items off on his pinky, ring, middle finger.
Shane snorted, stifling his laughter. His shoulder brushed Ilya’s. “Oh, is that what you’re looking for?”
Ilya pushed his shoulder more intentionally into Shane’s, his smile turning into a grin. “That is what everyone is looking for,” he said.
Shane made a face. “I’ll pass on the breasts, thanks.”
Ilya laughed at that, trying to keep his laughter quiet too. His gaze lingered on Shane’s face.
“Are you liking the book?” Shane asked, reaching over to tap the cover of the book Ilya held in his hand. Ilya had his knees drawn up a little and the movement meant Shane’s forearm grazed his thigh. He decided to let it rest there, his finger pressed to the book cover, running back and forth over the raised letters in the title. He felt the muscles in Ilya’s thigh flexing under his arm. Shane’s heart thudded in his ears.
“Is good,” Ilya said. He hesitated for a second. “My English is not as good as I’d like though. It takes me a long time to finish a page. Some of the words I am not familiar with.”
Shane drew his hand back. He was embarrassed he hadn’t thought about that. “I can help,” he said. “If there’s anything you’re not sure about, I can try to explain or—” He stopped when he noticed the way Ilya’s jaw was clenching.
But then Ilya said, “Yes, that would be good, I think.” He lifted the book and opened it to the last page he’d been on, taking the store bookmark out and slipping it between pages toward the end. “This.” He jabbed a finger at the word citadel. “And all of these fucking names. They are killing me, Hollander.” He pointed at Tyndareus and Philoctetes.
Shane scooted a little closer to him to look at the page, his chest pressing into Ilya’s arm. “A citadel is basically like a big castle or fort,” he said. “And you can kind of just let the names wash over you, for the most part.”
Shane looked up from the page and found Ilya looking at him instead of the words. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Shane said. They were sitting so close that Shane could see the stubble coming in along Ilya’s jaw. He could see a pimple starting near the corner of his mouth.
Ilya shifted, bringing his face even closer, lingering there for a second. “I will go pick out breasts for your father now,” he said, breath warm against Shane’s lips.
And then he stood up and disappeared, leaving Shane there, heart still thudding away.
“You have a crush!” Rose exclaimed, her socked foot connecting with Shane’s stomach.
They were lying on her bed. Shane on his back, his head hanging over the edge. Rose on her stomach next to him, propped up on her elbows, her feet kicking in the air behind her.
“It’s not a crush,” Shane said, blushing but maintaining eye contact with Rose. If he looked away, he lost. He knew that by now.
Rose was eating blueberries from a plastic container. She popped one into her mouth and crunched down on it loudly. “Do you think he’s attractive?” she asked, matter-of-factly.
“Well, yeah,” Shane said. “But it’s—”
“No buts,” Rose reprimanded. “These are yes or no questions. Don’t think, just answer questions.”
Shane laughed. He’d missed her. She’d been in Los Angeles for the last month, staying with friends, trying to decide if she could live there. Shane hadn’t asked about the trip yet, but he’d hoped Los Angeles had been awful to her and she’d never go back. He had a feeling she’d loved it though. Her hair was pink now, a light silvery sort of pink, and her skin was tanner than it ever was here in Ottawa. She looked more like herself than Shane had ever seen her look.
“Okay,” Shane conceded. “Yes, I think he’s attractive. Anyone would.”
Her foot found his hip this time. “Yes or no, Shane. No qualifying statements.”
Shane nodded mutely, waiting for her to go on.
“Do you want to kiss him?” she asked, rolling a blueberry between her fingers, looking at Shane.
He opened his mouth and she tossed it in. He chewed it for a long time. “Yes,” he said once he’d swallowed the blueberry.
Rose’s mouth fell open in a silent scream. “Okay,” she said calmly. She studied Shane’s face now, something in it softening. She set the container of blueberries to the side and lay down flat on the bed, her head over the edge, closer to Shane’s. “When he’s around, do you feel, like, tingly inside?”
Shane grimaced. “Tingly?”
She stacked her hands on top of each other and rested her chin there. “Stop,” she said. “You know what I mean. Do you feel butterflies? Do you feel anxious in a good way? Do you suddenly miss him in that second right before you know you’re gonna see him?”
Shane rolled onto his side. His fingers absently touched the ends of a chunk of Rose’s pink hair that was falling into her face. “Yes to the first two,” he said. “But I don’t understand the last one.”
Rose batted Shane’s hand away and tucked the hair behind her ear. “When I first met you, it was like that,” she said. “When I knew you were coming to pick me up or when I knew I’d see you in the hallway between classes, I’d miss you. All of the sudden. Like being hit by a freight train of yearning.”
“Hit by a freight train of yearning,” Shane repeated. He thought about Ilya coming through the front door of the store for his shift, how Shane would be thinking about him in those moments before he showed up. The words in whatever book he was reading would start to go out of focus and he’d read a sentence a few times without comprehending it because his mind was drifting to—And then Ilya would come through the door in one of his two preferred moods: grumpy as fuck or blindingly cheerful. “Yes.”
“You so have a crush,” Rose said, beaming at Shane.
Shane beamed right back at her. “Yeah,” he said. And then he groaned, turning onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. “Oh, fuck, I have a crush.”
He heard Rose laughing at him. She pulled the arm away from his face. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“What do I do, Rosie?” Shane asked, letting the arm she was holding onto slide until they were holding hands.
Rose put her head on his chest, looking up at him. “Enjoy it, Shanie,” she said quietly. “When was the last time you enjoyed something? When was the last time you felt good?”
Shane nodded, his throat tightening and keeping back whatever lie he might have tried to give her. It had been a long time since he’d felt good.
“Tell me how terrible LA was,” he said after a while. “And how you’re going to stay in Ottawa forever.”
Rose’s eyes brightened and she sat up, bouncing on the mattress. “I’m going to tell you how amazing it was and convince you to move there with me,” she said.
Shane laughed, sitting up with her. “You just might,” he said.
It was after midnight when Shane let himself into the house. He moved quietly as he took his shoes off by the door, not wanting to disturb his parents who were surely asleep by now. But then he saw blue light coming from the den. As he got closer, he heard the quiet roar of a cheering crowd, the swooshing sound of skates on ice, the clacking of hockey sticks, his own young, optimistic voice. He stepped into the den’s entry way and saw his mom sitting on the couch with her computer on her lap, eyes glued to the screen.
“I wish you wouldn’t watch that stuff,” Shane said from where he stood.
His mom jumped at the sound of his voice, closing the laptop immediately. Guilt on her face. “Honey,” she said, forcing her voice to be light. “I thought you might stay over at Rose’s tonight.”
“I asked you before not to watch those old videos. There’s no point, Mom,” he said, hearing the hard edge in his voice. “It’s the past. It’s over.”
His mom pressed her lips together, sliding her glasses from her face. She looked at him then patted the couch cushion next to her. “Come here,” she said.
He wasn’t angry with her, but he also really wasn’t in the mood to sit next to her. He went anyway. He sunk down on the couch, his head falling to her shoulder. She instantly started combing his hair back from his forehead with gentle fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you asked me not to watch them, but sometimes I just—” She cleared her throat. “I’m still so proud of you for all of it, even if it didn’t work out the way we thought it would.”
Shane pressed his eyes tightly closed. A sound filled his head. A single, loud POP. And then nothing but ringing silence. “I’m going to bed,” he said abruptly, lifting his head and standing up.
He heard his mother call his name as he left the den, but he didn’t turn back. He climbed the stairs, went into his room, and closed the door. He fell into bed without bothering to undress. He stared at the bookshelf across from his bed, the top shelf empty, his trophies and game pucks gone for years now. He still hadn’t put anything else in their place.
It didn’t work out the way we thought it would. No, nothing had. Nothing about Shane’s life had worked out the way everyone thought it would.
Just as he was sinking into his misery, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping it would be Rose psychically knowing he needed her to distract him right now. But it wasn’t Rose.
It was Ilya. Calling him. Late at night.
Shane answered before he could talk himself out of it. “Hi,” he said.
“Hollander,” Ilya said, voice rumbling through the speaker and into Shane’s ear. “You have copy of this book?”
“Song of Achilles?” Shane asked. “Uh, yeah.” He got up and found his hardcover copy a few shelves below his empty trophy shelf. He came back to bed and stretched out, phone pressed to his ear. “Why?”
Ilya was quiet for a second and then said, “I am too tired to make sense of English, but I want to know what happens next.” He stopped, sniffing. “Chapter four.”
Shane realized what it was Ilya was trying to ask him. “You want me to read it to you?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. After a long pause he added, almost reluctantly, “Please.”
Shane opened his copy to chapter four and started to read to Ilya.
“What position?” Ilya asked Shane as he slid a boxcutter through the tape on a box of new books that had come in that morning from the distributor. A mix of new releases and restocks of older books.
Shane was taking the books they’d already unboxed and placing them on a cart to be shelved. He was moving slowly because he kept stopping to look at books that seemed interesting. There was a new John Irving novel with a bisexual protagonist that he was already four pages into. He looked up at Ilya, having only half heard what he’d said.
“Hockey,” Ilya clarified for him. “What position you play?”
None, Shane wanted to answer. He didn’t play any position. Not anymore. “Center,” he said eventually. “You?”
Ilya was nodding as he retrieved books from the box he’d opened. “Center.”
They were alone in the back room of the store. A small space with a few shelves and a table to unload newly arrived books onto. There was a door in the corner that led to the tiny office where Shane’s mom dealt with all the business stuff that went into running a bookstore or where Shane’s dad mostly read and called around looking for old books to buy from people.
And then there was the door that went out into the back alley where Ilya was often found smoking or speaking hushed but severe Russian into his phone. The back alley where Shane used to keep a hockey stick and a ball and practice for hours while his parents worked, slapping the ball into the wall of the neighboring building, passing the ball to no one, doing the same move over and over until his hands were perfect every time.
“Were you any good?” Shane asked.
Ilya snorted. “I was the best,” he said cheerlessly, tossing the now empty box toward the small mound of other empty boxes by the back door.
Shane slid the books Ilya had unpacked toward him, setting aside the John Irving novel. He started to sort the new stacks of books by genre and author, placing them on the cart as he went.
“You are best too, yes?” Ilya said after a few moments.
Shane frowned, gripping the book he was holding tightly, feeling the pages crunch together. “What makes you think that?”
Ilya shrugged, stepping forward and easing the book from Shane’s hand. It was a paperback copy of Fifty Shades of Gray which Shane really wished they didn’t have to sell, but his dad said it was one of the only books people were actually buying and reading these days. Shane knew he’d just finally grown tired of people coming in to ask if they had it and then leaving without buying anything. So now he made sure to keep it in stock.
Ilya shook the book out, reshaping it after Shane’s death grip. Then he looked at Shane, folding his arms with the book held to his chest. “But I am right?”
Shane turned away from him. He put the books left on the table on the cart without bothering to organize them in any way. “I was good,” he said. And then, wanting to turn the conversation away from himself, he asked, “Why did you stop playing?”
Surprisingly, Ilya answered the question. “Was not fun anymore. Too intense. Too—” He cut himself off. “I no longer had reason to play.”
Shane wasn’t sure Ilya meant by that, but he didn’t press.
Ilya held the copy of Fifty Shades out to Shane, keeping his hand on it as Shane went to take it back. “You said was.”
“What?” Shane asked. Ilya still hadn’t let go of the book that was caught between them now.
“I was good,” Ilya repeated Shane’s words to him. “You are not good anymore?”
Shane’s pulse began to hammer in his throat, at the back of his skull. Pop, static, ringing sound. He swallowed and blinked. “Just a little rusty now, I guess,” he said. “I don’t get out there as often as I used to.”
“Ah,” Ilya said, releasing the book suddenly so that Shane stumbled backward a bit. “But you will have plenty of time on ice when you are coaching at camp soon?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Shane put Fifty Shades of Gray on the cart and started to push it toward the door.
Ilya followed him back out into the store. Shane navigating the cart amongst the shelves, starting at the back of the store, shelving some of the genre fiction. He handed books to Ilya and watched him shelve them. Sometimes he would take his time looking at the shelf and then at the spine of the book before figuring out where in the alphabet an author went. Shane tried to give him as little direction as possible, wanting to see how much Ilya had learned at this point. Letting him shelve a mystery in the science fiction section. Watching him shelve the third book in a series out of order.
They worked quietly together like that for a while. The wheels on the cart squeaking as they moved from one aisle to the next. Ilya quietly reciting the alphabet to himself. Shane glad to have their talk of hockey behind them.
They were rolling the cart toward the nonfiction new release shelf when Ilya said, “I wonder what it would be like together, you and me.”
Shane whacked the cart into a low shelf of poetry. “Sorry, what?”
Ilya grinned at him over his shoulder as he placed a book, the cover facing out just like Shane had showed him to do with the new releases. “Hockey,” Ilya said. “Playing together. I wonder if I would beat you.”
Shane rolled his eyes, grinning back at him. “You fucking wish,” he said. He stretched an arm out and shoved Ilya lightly.
Ilya laughed, shoving Shane back, his eyes bright.
It was only later, when Shane was alone at the counter, Ilya gone for the day, downtown Ottawa golden as the sun set through the large front windows, that Shane realized that had been the first time in a long time he’d had a thought about hockey that didn’t feel like being shoved under cold, dark water.
“Shane, come here for a second, would ya?” Shane’s dad called out the second Shane stepped into the house later that night. He followed his dad’s voice to the kitchen where he and Shane’s mom were both sitting at the small kitchen table together. His mom had a glass of white wine in front of her. His dad had a bottle of beer. They both looked very serious.
“What’s going on?” Shane asked, worried.
“Sit with us,” his mom said, pushing the empty chair out for Shane.
“Okay,” Shane said slowly, lowering himself into the chair and looking at both of them. “Am I in trouble?”
His mom laughed. “No, honey,” she said. “I think I am.”
“Your mom told me about the conversation you two had last night,” his dad said. “And we just wanted to talk with you.”
“I was wrong,” his mom said, her hands on the base of her wine glass. “I shouldn’t have been watching those old videos. You asked me not to and I didn’t listen.”
“Mom—” Shane started.
She raised her hand. “And I don’t ever want to make you feel like I’m disappointed or like I wish things had turned out differently,” she said.
Shane nodded, swallowing over and over. “I mean, I wish things had turned out differently,” he said with a wet laugh. He reached out and covered one of his mom’s hand with his own. “It’s okay, Mom.”
“Your mom and I love you, kiddo,” his dad said. “We want you to be happy, in whatever shape that takes now.”
His mom sniffled, straightening her shoulders. “Unless it means dating Ilya Rozanov,” she said.
“That ship might have sailed, Yuna,” his dad said, sitting back in his chair with a knowing smile.
Shane blushed furiously. “We’re just friends,” he said, but then he looked at his mom. “Do you not like him?”
She lifted her glass, taking a small sip of wine. “I’m just not sure that I trust him,” she said. “He seems so secretive. Where did he even come from?”
“Russia,” Shane answered levelly, making his dad laugh and his mom tilt her head with a smile. “He’s nice once you get to know him. Maybe he can come over for dinner.”
Yuna looked at David, the two of them communicating silently with each other. “Alright,” Shane’s mom said. “How about Sunday? I’ll make spaghetti.”
Shane smiled, standing up and kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”
Ilya taped the blue heart to the piece of cardstock and then lifted it, moving it down a fraction of an inch and retaping it. He frowned and then pulled up the other blue heart next to it, moving it up almost indiscernibly and pressing it back down. “When did you know you were gay?” he asked Shane without looking up from his work.
Shane had finally gotten the Pride Month decorations out of the box in the store room and they were working on putting the table together. There were about thirty cut out construction paper hearts in various colors. A few small pride flags for different identities—he’d started with only the typical rainbow ones but then gone on to include a bi flag and a trans flag and a lesbian flag over the last few years—that would go in various places on top of the table. One full size pride flag that Shane would drape over the edge. Some confetti shaped like hearts and rainbows that he would scatter around the tabletop. A printout he would tape to the cardstock once they were done applying the rainbow hearts to it that said: READ WITH PRIDE in, of course, rainbow letters.
Ilya’s question came just as Shane was contemplating the number of rainbows present, the colors vibrant and loud, everything so blatant, so honest, so… gay. He was feeling an old spike of anxiety at being surrounded by these things. He had the urge to push it away, hide it somewhere. His sexuality was like a broken-in shoe that was usually comfortable but still sometimes rubbed the wrong way.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “I hid it for a long time. Even from myself.” He looked at the row of green hearts he’d just finished taping together. “Especially from myself.”
Ilya nodded, standing up from where he’d been bent over his work. He’d made a small bi pride flag with the paper hearts. A row of three pink hearts, three purple, three blue, taped to the the bottom left corner of the cardstock.
“It wasn’t really until I was fifteen that I realized it wasn’t something that would just go away,” Shane went on when Ilya didn’t say anything. He didn’t usually talk about this with anyone besides Rose and his parents, but there was something about Ilya that made Shane want to be honest. There was something about Ilya that made Shane want to be known.
“You met a boy then?” Ilya asked, still focused on his hearts, his finger tracing the edge of a pink one.
Shane laughed. “I met a girl actually,” he said. “And she was perfect, but I didn’t—” He thought back to being partnered with Rose in Chemistry all those years ago. They had connected so immediately, so intensely, that Shane had assumed he was falling in love. And he’d been so fucking relieved. They’d talk on the phone about hockey, school, life, anything. She was so straightforward too. Shane never felt like he was missing anything when they talked, never felt like he didn’t understand her. But when it came to anything physical, Shane would find himself disconnecting, going somewhere far away, watching himself kiss her or touch her from the corner of the room.
“You did not want to fuck her,” Ilya said, finally turning his head to look at Shane.
Shane winced at his language. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “She’s my best friend and I love her, but it was never anything more than that. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself at first.”
“And since then?” Ilya said, moving in close to Shane. He reached an arm out, stretching it around Shane. Shane took a small step toward him, waiting to feel Ilya’s hand pressing at the small of his back, waiting for that inevitable contact. But then Ilya’s hand pulled back holding a red heart he’d retrieved from the pile of paper hearts on the other side of Shane. Ilya held the red heart up, twirling it between his thumb and index finger. They both watched it move. “Has there been a boy for you?”
Shane took the heart from Ilya’s fingers. “No one important,” he said. There had been fumbling hookups and awkward kisses with guys he’d found—embarrassingly, and probably dangerously—on Craigslist who he’d only really been attracted to the idea of. He’d also gone on a few dates with a boy he’d met at a gay bar Rose had dragged him to. He was tall, lanky, a little nerdy. He really liked books so they had plenty to talk about. But then he’d turned pushy about sex after two dates even though Shane had asked him for patience. He was never physically pushy, but he talked about it a lot, always trying to persuade Shane. So Shane had deleted his number from his phone and never talked to him again.
And Shane had wanted people from afar. He’d had a terrible, obviously unrequited crush on his youth league team’s goalie. Two years back, the store had had a regular customer that Shane had entertained idle fantasies about. An older man, a professor at Uottawa with a neat salt and pepper beard who came in looking for history books, thick ones that he seemed to read at an astounding rate, always smiling warmly at Shane.
Then there was Ilya. But Shane wanted him from up close. Shane wanted more than the idea of him. Which, of course, terrified him.
Ilya’s eyes moved from Shane’s face down to the fist Shane was making around the paper heart. Ilya carefully unfurled Shane’s fingers from around it, letting the back of Shane’s hand rest against his palm as they both looked down at the crumpled thing. “Hollander—”
The bell over the door rang out. Louder than usual. “What the fuck is up, Shrimpdick?” called out a warm, cheerful voice.
Ilya pulled his hand away. Shane turned around. The paper heart went fluttering away from them.
Rose came bounding up to the counter, her pink hair bouncing. She froze at the sight of Ilya. “You must be Ilya,” she said, smiling. She darted her eyes toward Shane, giving him a brief apologetic look, and then back at Ilya. “He doesn’t actually have a shrimp dick,” she said. “I just like to call him that. It’s one of those ironic nicknames, you know? Because he’s actually got a huge co—”
“Ilya, this is Rose,” Shane said, shooting daggers at Rose. “That friend I was just telling you about.”
Ilya considered Rose for a long time. “You are strange,” he said.
“Thank you,” Rose said, smiling widely, considering Ilya herself. “You are huge.”
“Thank you.”
They both stood there, sizing each other up. Shane watched them nervously.
“We will be friends,” Ilya said with a tight nod of his head. “Now, what does it mean? Shrimpdick?”
Rose laughed that head-thrown-back laugh of hers and Shane felt his entire body relax.
“I like her,” Ilya said after Rose had left and they were back to working on the Pride table.
“She’s the best,” Shane agreed, nodding. He was setting the READ WITH PRIDE sign into the metal stand that went in the middle of the table, trying not to mess up any of their carefully placed rainbow hearts.
“She is funny,” Ilya said. “And very beautiful. I can see why you tried not to be gay for her.”
Shane ignored him and stood back to make sure the sign was centered. Then he turned to the counter for the books that would go on the table, looking through them again to figure out how they should be arranged. He wasn’t really thinking about Rose then. He wasn’t really thinking about the books either. He was thinking about the moment with Ilya before Rose had interrupted them. He was thinking about the heavy air between them, the way Ilya had said his name, serious and low, about to say something.
“My mom wanted me to ask you,” Shane heard himself saying. “If you’d come over to the house for dinner on Sunday?”
“Why?” Ilya asked, a strange edge to his voice like suspicion or guilt or shame.
Shane started to place books on the display stands at random. No thought to theme or genre or anything. “You’ve been working here for almost a month now. They know we’ve become friends,” he said. “They just want to get to know you better.”
“Is that what we are?” Ilya asked. “Friends?”
Shane looked up to where Ilya was leaning with an elbow on the counter. He was fidgeting with something in his hands. “I think so,” Shane said.
“Like you and Rose?” Ilya asked, still looking down at whatever he was holding.
Shane went back to placing the books on the table thoughtlessly. Only focused on getting the books out of his hands and onto the table. “I guess,” he said.
Ilya hummed in the back of his throat. “I will come to dinner,” he said.
“Okay, good,” Shane said, feeling like it wasn’t actually good, feeling like he’d said something wrong, done something wrong.
Ilya went around to the other side of the counter and grabbed his phone and keys from where he kept them by the register. He disappeared through the back before Shane could say anything else.
Shane sighed, looking at the table. He would have to reorganize it the next day, but he left it for now. Back at the counter, he saw that red paper heart lying there, crumpled by Shane’s fist and then expertly smoothed out by Ilya’s fingers.