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“Do you ever think about it?” Rose asked, thumb gently trailing across Shane’s knuckles. The touch was supposed to be grounding, but to him it felt like sandpaper. Forcing his eyes to pause their measured tracing of the grout on the wall behind her, Shane met her gaze and sent her a questioning look.
“I just mean,” she sighed. “This is something you’ve had to deal with alone for so long. And, I don’t know, I guess I’m just wondering if you ever thought about what it would be like if things were different. If you could … come out or something.” She bit her lip, the embarrassment blooming under her cheeks noticeable even under the soft lights in the restaurant.
Shane swallowed hard. Of course I’ve thought about it, he wanted to say. Of course he’d thought about what it would be like to love someone, to let himself be loved, in public. Some days he wanted it so deeply it felt like his bones would fracture under the weight of his wanting. Eyes drifting back to tracing the hidden patterns between the bricks, he tried to tell her as much. Rose would understand, he knew. Fuck, she had already been understanding. Done nearly everything for him, all but telling him that she knew he was gay. The least he owed her was an explanation, despite her reassurance that she didn’t expect one. But Shane knew he was at fault, felt the guilt claw up his throat like stinging nettles drawn across fragile skin in the summer.
“I uh. I mean yeah I’ve thought about it,” he managed. A quick glance at Rose’s face told him she was listening, her expression open and encouraging. It made keeping the tears in his eyes and the bile in his throat harder. “I think– I think sometimes thinking about it is worse though. Because I know that it just isn’t feasible. And even if it was, it would still be some version of a lie.”
“Oh Shane,” Rose’s thumb moved, brushing the inside of his wrist. The lightest of pressure on his pulse caused him to flinch, pulling his hand back at the wrongness of the touch. Horrified at his own reaction, Shane stared down at the inside of his wrist. His face crumbled as he realized why the touch had set him off so badly.
Twin tears rolling over his freckles, he looked up at Rose, making proper eye contact for the first time since she’d brought up the topic and let out a quiet sob.
“I’m– Oh god I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean– It’s just that he,” Shane swallowed, the weight in his chest pulling him down. “When I got overwhelmed. When we were… together, he would put pressure on my wrists to help ground me. To remind me he was there.”
Rose smiled sadly at him then. Nodded like she understood even though Shane knew she never really would. Both times they’d had sex were a complete disaster with Shane being so overly present and trying to get her off as fast as possible so she wouldn’t notice he was barely hard.
He hadn’t gotten remotely close to the light, floaty state Ilya often brought him to. Shane didn’t know if anyone else ever would; if he’d ever trust anyone enough to let them take his brain away from his body for a little while. With Ilya there was history, yes, but there were also dozens of texts and half a dozen encounters to reassure Shane that he was safe. That Ilya could and would bring him back, resettle Shane in his body before they split for the night.
“He sounds,” Rose started, clearly trying to find the right words. Shane dug his thumb into the veiny part of his wrist. It wasn’t nearly as comforting as when Ilya did it, but he hoped the sensation might allow him to keep ahold of himself long enough to at least find his car. The last thing he needed was a lecture from his mother or his agent if the press caught a photo of him leaving in the midst of a panic attack.
Clearing her throat, Rose took a breath and shot Shane a reassuring smile. “It sounds like he took really good care of you. You deserve to be taken care of Shane. Because genuinely you are one of the funniest guys I know. You’re brilliant and so generous and I feel so lucky to have met you. Truly, you are the best gay boyfriend a girl could ask for.”
Shane laughed at that, the statement so jarring it seemed to pull him back from the anxious spiral he was sure he’d been about to trip down. He sniffed, wiping the tears from his eyes and smiled at her.
“Had a lot of experience with those?” he asked, voice a little gravelly.
“Oh you have no idea. My first boyfriend came out right after I took my shirt off while we were making out. It was awful,” she said, laughing at the memory. Shane hummed, sending her a shy smile.
“Look. I want you to know that I’m here for you okay? I’m guessing you don’t have a lot of people to talk about this with and I am committed to staying friends, Shane Hollander.”
He nodded, hesitantly reaching his hand across the table to squeeze hers. The touch still felt rough, mechanical maybe, but wasn’t as bad as before. Shane knew other people felt comforted by touch, and she had already provided him with so much tonight. The least he could do was put up with a little of his own discomfort.
“Friends,” he agreed softly.
“And I don’t mean any of that bullshit people say. I mean actual friends. Who text each other!”
“Yes, yes I promise. Real friends,” Shane huffed timidly. He looked at her then, carefully masked emotions spilling across his face.
“You’re one of my best friends already, Rose. I’m uh– I’m sorry we couldn’t be more than that. But I am really grateful. To have met you too.”
The smile she threw back at him brightened the whole room.
As they stood up, Shane helping Rose with her coat and then leading her out to the car she’d ordered, he couldn’t help but feel lighter than he had in weeks. Maybe since the last time he was in Boston, curled up into a solid chest that smelled faintly like pine trees and cigarette smoke.
“You better text me,” Rose threatened as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling Shane into a hug. He politely returned it, muttering assurances before opening the door for her and allowing her to climb in. He shut the door behind her and waved as the black SUV pulled away, leaving him standing in the middle of the street.
He had a near unbearable urge to call Ilya. Tell him what happened. Ask him to forgive him for running away. Ask him to hold him.
God, Shane missed how Ilya held him.
But he knew that wasn’t in the cards for tonight. Instead, Shane found where he’d parked and started to drive himself home. It wasn’t until he was in the alley behind the investment property that he realized he hadn’t driven himself to his apartment in Brossard. Staring out the windshield at the back door he had opened for Ilya so many times before, Shane told himself he was going to leave.
After sixty five seconds of trying to convince himself to shift his Jeep back into drive, Shane turned off the ignition, grabbed his phone from the passenger seat and walked towards the door for Unit 301.
Shane didn’t keep clothes in this apartment and barely kept any toiletries. The fridge wasn’t stocked to make his carefully balanced high-protein breakfast smoothie and it was further away from the rink, meaning he’d have to wake up even earlier to get to the next morning’s practice. This place had held no utility in the months he’d been dating Rose. Really he should have gotten rid of it years ago.
But as he settled into bed, body and brain exhausted from dinner, Shane could pretend like Ilya was there with him. He’d briefly considered going out to buy a pack of cigarettes, of lighting one to let it burn to the quick, to more easily pretend. The idea was quickly abandoned when he’d found the black Boston Bears shirt half tucked behind one of the nightstands. Presumably it had found its home there after one of Shane and Ilya’s more frantic meetings.
Curled up in the probably dirty shirt, surrounded by twelve ugly throw pillows and sheets that smelled too much like detergent and not enough like the forest Shane spent the summers of his childhood in, he allowed himself to push on the inside of his wrist.
And while it wasn’t quite enough, it felt good to pretend while he couldn’t have the real thing. In the morning Shane would tell himself he was being ridiculous, that it was his breakup with Rose that had him acting this way.
But as the tears he hadn’t known he was still holding onto drew road maps across his cheeks while he drifted to sleep, Shane let himself dream.
Dream of what it would be like if things were different.