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Yuna and David had come over on Shane and Ilya's second-to-last night at the cottage for another little dinner. Shane cooked eight burgers, again, which was this time only slightly too many. They sat at the table on the back patio, which was a touch small for four, and made slightly awkward conversation about a range of polite topics. As the sun set, Yuna went inside to avoid the bugs while Shane and David began building a fire. Ilya followed Yuna, because Shane and David had started talking about different kinds of fire pits and various ways of starting fires and all the ways one might arrange the wood for the fire and good god. There was only so much he could take.
Inside was dark and cool. Yuna sat on the couch with a glass of wine staring off into space. Thinking. Ilya didn't doubt that she had a lot to think about. He poured himself a glass from the bottle Shane had run out to buy in anticipation of their visit. It was a very dry Ontario white, very cold from the fridge. He was waffling between sitting in silence or hearing about the burnability of certain trees when Yuna said, “Come sit, Ilya. Here.”
She leaned over and flicked on a lamp. The room became a warm yellow, the shade of light no doubt hand-picked by some discerning designer. He sat down. Even though he'd been lying on this couch all week, had fucked Shane on this couch, he felt too awkward to put his feet up on it in front of Yuna. He sat stiffly.
“Ilya,” she began. She didn't look directly at him, just kept staring at the window, which overlaid their reflections on the scene of Shane and David puttering around the fire. “I'm sorry if I haven't been. . .” she rubbed her forehead, “as welcoming as I should.”
“No, you have been fine,” he said. He started to turn his head to look at her but didn't make it all the way. Sometimes Shane couldn't look people in the face when he was emotional, and sometimes Ilya was the same. Yuna sighed, he watched her shoulders move in her reflection.
“I haven't been. I have an image in my head of how I would act meeting a partner of Shane's, and this is not it.”
“How do you act in your head?”
Yuna took another breath and another sip of her wine. Ilya followed suit.
“Shane would bring them over for dinner. And we'd say, ‘How lovely to meet you, we've heard so much about you.’”
Ilya huffed a half-laugh.
“Well, that part's not your fault,” he said.
“I feel like it is, though.”
“What else does imaginary Yuna do?” Ilya asked before they could go down that rabbit hole.
“We'd chat, we'd get to know this person. We'd break out the baby pictures.”
“You have any baby pictures on your phone?”
Yuna’s face softened a little.
“Yes.”
Shane's kindergarten photo, attempting to smile and failing. Shane in baby skates on the Ottawa River, his little face frowny with concentration. Shane's fifth birthday party, Metros themed. Shane at a table in a Metros shirt, in front of a Metros cake. Yuna, in a Metros sweater, her arm around him. Yuna smiling at the camera, Shane focused on the cake.
“I've seen this one before!” said Ilya. “They put it on ESPN all the time when the Metros won the cup.”
Yuna smiled, and so did Ilya.
“I can't tell you how happy and proud I was.”
Shane asleep on a couch under a floral blanket. David tying Shane's skates for him. And one of Shane, maybe eight, holding a little hockey trophy, making another deeply uncomfortable attempt at a smile, his eyes not on the camera.
“I think he still makes that face in photoshoots sometimes,” said Ilya. Yuna laughed. It wasn't literally true; Shane was pretty good at arranging his face into the required shape when necessary, but it was kind of emotionally true. If you knew him, his discomfort could sometimes shine through his picture-perfect smile.
“In Grade Four he started doing Face Practice. After school he would make faces in the mirror and ask us which ones looked better.”
Yuna absentmindedly scrolled to another photo in her Shane album, this one a school picture. Shane with nearly combed hair and a little button up. Ilya cooed.
“In Grade Seven he started doing People Homework. He only had, like, three conversation topics and he had a hard time making friends. At that point he was taking notes on games, so he started taking notes on conversations, too. He would see what topics or phrases people seemed to like or to use a lot and try to copy them.”
Shane on Christmas morning, maybe eleven years old, his smile still awkward but more presentable, holding up the new skates he'd just received. Ilya looked at him, his man, his boy, his Shane, and felt an overwhelming, painful compassion.
“Did you do anything like that?” asked Yuna.
“No,” said Ilya. “Not consciously. Everyone does it a little bit, I think.”
“But not like Shane.”
“No, not like that.”
Yuna sighed and put her phone down.
“I worry about him all the time.”
Ilya didn't respond.
“Jesus. Sorry. I've had too much to drink, I think.”
“No, no, it's okay.”
“Let's go see how the boys are doing, okay? I'll stop being such a drip.”
She stood, grabbed the wine bottle from the fridge and made her way outside. Ilya followed.
It was fully dark now, Shane and David's fire crackling nicely. The two of them sat on opposite sides of the firepit in exactly the same position, their arms crossed across the chest and legs crossed at the ankle. They stared at the fire while chatting comfortably.
“No, Dad I'm serious,” Shane was saying. “Your guys’ fire pit is so unsafe.”
“It is not, it's fine.”
“I'm just saying, I'm not helping you guys pay the fine when you start a forest fire.”
“Oh my god, are you guys still talking about fires?” asked Ilya. “I was trying to escape this.”
Shane smiled at him, which was wonderful. Ilya sat down next to him, not as close as he would like to.
“I was just showing Ilya your old pictures,” said Yuna, her voice pitched like she knew it would cause a reaction. It did.
“Mom!”
Ilya snickered and turned to put his face into Shane's shoulder. He was so juvenile around his parents, it was hilarious.
“Mom!”
Ilya looked up to see Yuna tucking her phone away. She'd taken a picture.
“Sorry,” she said. “You two look cute together.”
She sounded awkward saying it, and Ilya thought that maybe that was something the Yuna of her imagination would say to Shane and his partner. The picture was poorly lit and a little blurry. Shane was looking at his mother just behind the camera, annoyed. Ilya was grinning at him.
Later, Ilya got Yuna to send it to him. He texted back: thanks:), and followed it up with a picture of Shane, glasses on, consulting a bird guide.