Chapter Text
As soon as the car door slammed, nearly grazing the tips of his fingers, Shane collapsed into the driver’s seat. He silently thanked God that he had parked facing away from the rest of the lot and not towards it. His lip began to quiver, heat flushing his face, but he refused to let himself cry. Not here – not with Rozanov just steps away.
He practiced the breathing exercise that he had learned online. Find the physical sensation of the feeling inside of your body and breathe into it. Imagine it as a blob, and create space between you and the blob, breathe in cool air to insulate it from touching your heart, your lungs. He watched in his mind’s eye as the sickly ball of anxiety shriveled up in the cavity of his chest, until it settled back down to the grape-sized unease in his heart that was the constant hum underlying his entire life.
When he had collected himself, he pulled out his phone to shoot off a quick text.
Heading back now. Super long line, I’m sorry
Rose 💍❤️
No sorries
See you soon, love you
Love you ❤️
He pulled out of the parking lot and started driving through traffic, a gentle swarm of cars surrounding him, the sun directly in his line of sight. He fiddled around in the glove box and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, before mindlessly tapping the “on” button next to the radio, which was set to some generic top 40 channel. A familiar acoustic ballad filled his ears, but it took him a while to recall, until it hit him – it had been an outdoor music festival Rose and her friends took him to back in 2018, and an up-and-comer whose name he had forgotten had played this song.
He recalled swaying with Rose on the warm summer night, his hands wrapped around her waist, his chest pressed to her back, her friends singing along. He had been a bit overwhelmed by the crowd, the noise, the putrid smell of weed filling the field, and he remembered looking up at the stars – stronger out here than in the city – and trying to pay attention to the way that Rose’s soft hair swept against his chin, trying desperately to enjoy being with her, telling himself that he had a movie star girlfriend and he had better start acting like it.
Rose had gotten tipsy on wine, Shane escorting her home like a gentleman. Thankfully, Rose had let Shane skip her friends’ outdoor camping idea for a perfectly moderately satisfying night in a hotel. He couldn’t recall, now, why he so badly did not want to go camping in that moment. It didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.
Somehow, he felt his regret and agony more strongly in this memory, more clearly than usual. This dread of being in the wrong place, the feeling that everything had gone wrong and the only way to stop it from getting worse was for Shane to make himself as small and quiet as humanly possible. The feeling stung deeply, cut into places he didn’t know were raw and bloody, places that felt like they were beating faster and harder in the wake of his run-in at the coffee shop. He returned to his breathing exercise, the flow of oxygen through his mouth quickening. Traitorous tears boiled over, escaping his eyes – at first it was just one, but as soon as he felt that he had the opportunity to cry, something he almost never let himself do, it all came flooding out. He felt like he was going to choke on the lump in his throat, and when he opened his mouth, he involuntarily sobbed a pathetic, blubbering groan. Not a noise that a grown man should make.
All of his carefully crafted self-protection seemed to magically dissipate. All the forces that were keeping him on the road went limp, and he quickly merged across three lanes, other cars honking in response. He begged the light to turn green so that he could make the u-turn before he returned to his senses.
Because in this moment, he was not Shane Hollander, 37, veteran pride of the Montreal Metros and one half of Hollywood’s most adored couple.
All of a sudden, he was 25 again, outside of a club in Montreal, hating himself more than he ever had.
—
March 2017
Montreal, QC
The remnants of a slippery sheet of ice still lined the edges of the parking lot of the Ciel nightclub, the wind whipping against Shane’s jacket and threatening to numb his ears. As he expected, the environment of the club had been almost nauseating — the blaring music, strobing lights, crush of bodies, the strain of hearing someone’s voice from six inches away. The heartbreak of watching Ilya’s mouth enveloped over that girl’s ear proved to push him over the edge.
He told Rose he was feeling sick and she should meet him at his apartment. He was worried it maybe wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to abandon her at the club, but she had assured him it would be fine. Shane knew that after the disaster of their last evening together, he needed to make sure tonight was different, and he needed a moment alone to get his head straight. He spotted his car across the parking lot and began to dig his keys out of his pocket, but was stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice yelling from the tucked away area beside the building.
“Ты просто чертовски некомпетентен, Алексей. Я прошу тебя сделать одну простую, блядь, вещь, а ты меня оскорбляешь.”
Shane knew he should keep walking, ignore this entire exchange and go home as he had planned. He didn’t even know what he was listening to. But there was something in Rozanov’s voice that he had never heard before. It wasn’t even the anger that he knew from the few times that he’d heard Rozanov speaking to his family. It was something far more desperate and illogical.
“Я не могу поверить тебе. Ты что, не видишь — он, блять, умирает? Он умирает прямо у тебя на глазах.”
Shane watched as Rozanov stumbled around the corner of the wall he was behind; his eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets when he noticed Shane.
The reaction only lasted a second, before Rozanov was all of a sudden taken aback, presumably by something on the other line. He looked like a baby deer that had just watched its mother get shot. He quickly buried the feeling and turned his anger back on.
“Если он позвонит мне ещё раз, а тебя не будет рядом — клянусь Богом, я тебя убью.”
Shane watched as Rozanov pulled his phone away from his ear to hang up the call, not noticing as the phone slipped from his hand, eyes locked on Shane. The baby deer had become the lion.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Hollander?”
Rozanov was stumbling towards him, thick accent curling around his vowels, reeking of sweat and alcohol.
“Leave me alone, Rozanov.” Shane attempted to keep walking, shoving his hands in his pockets.
”You would like that, yes?” He giggled, and then hiccupped. “You would like to pretend.”
Shane clenched his fists and turned around. The stress of the club had sucked all the patience out of his body.
“What the hell is your problem?” Shane’s voice was exasperated.
Rozanov responded in Russian at first, before shaking his head. “You play very nice tonight. Out there. Perform very pretty for crowd.”
”…Ok? Good game too, I guess?”
Shane starts to turn around and keep walking, until Rozanov says, “I am not talking about ice.”
“Did she teach you acting? Because you play… not always convincing.” His English was slipping, probably from the fog of alcohol in his brain. “When you stare at me, everyone can see on your face.”
Shane met Rozanov’s glassy eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
”We can all see how bad you want me.” Rozanov flung his arms out dramatically, as if to gesture to the whole world around them. His voice was far, far too loud for Shane’s liking, and he felt the embarrassment crawling up his neck. He stepped closer to Rozanov, glaring and mouthing to him to be quiet.
Rozanov stumbled back and laughed. “You are so funny. You get everything you want. And you cannot handle anything on your own.” He hiccupped. “You run from Ilya’s house because mommy and daddy cannot save you.” He dragged out the words in a sing-song voice, “mommy and daddy”, teasing Shane, calling him a child. “Must be nice.”
“Go home. You’re drunk.” Shane heard his voice crack, heat flushing his cheeks as tears welled behind his eyes.
“You run to girl’s arms. But you are not very convincing.”
“Go home, Rozanov,” he begged. Shane turned away and started walking towards his car.
“What are you so afraid of? Everyone already thinks you are gay.”
“SHUT UP!”
Shane’s shoulders were heaving up and down with his heavy breathing, his voice strained, sobbing furious tears.
As Shane made the last steps towards his car, Rozanov’s voice continued buzzing in his ear like a mosquito from across the parking lot.
”You know what I think, Shane?”
Shane opened the door to his car but could not will himself to enter.
”I think you are a coward.”
He jumped in and shut the door behind him before he either punched Rozanov or collapsed onto his arms, putting his key in the ignition and speeding away as he struggled to breathe.
Shane sped to pull into the parking lot of the Jean Coutu pharmacy on the side of the road and parked the car as quickly as he could. Blurry dots of blue and purple danced in his field of vision, obscuring the world around him. Static seemed to fill the space behind his forehead as a deep pain swelled in his temples. His breath was ragged, as if a rug had been pulled out from under his lungs, or as if he had been caught in a tidal wave. Yes, exactly that. He remembered going to the beach as a child and seeing the signs displaying bright warnings, the drawing of a faceless child being pulled away by the unforgiving ebb and flow of a cruel earth. He remembered the panicked fantasy that used to fill his mind, the dark rushing water pulling his little legs until Yuna and David were just a blip in the horizon — the fear that maybe the ocean was supposed to take him.
Even as a child, there had been nothing Shane feared more than losing control, of being vulnerable to what could take him from the people and places he loved. If he lost control of who he was — or of who everyone thought he was — everyone would see him for what he really is. So he kept a tight grasp on every small semblance of control he had, until his life was so micromanaged, his schedule so tight and his life so perfectly crafted to fit into the corners of a magazine cover, that he had nowhere to breathe.
He had let himself breath with Rozanov. Had unbuttoned his shirt and let his shoulders drop ever-so slightly, allowed the tension stored in his knuckles to dissipate a little more each time they fucked. Shane told himself it was what was necessary to keep a lid on his increasingly burning desire to be something, anything, other than the person he was supposed to be, because facing that desire terrified the fucking daylights out of him. But then Rozanov had called him Shane, and he had called him Ilya, and he felt that desire begin to burn brighter, begin to win out, and he needed to run from it before it could get any worse, needed to screw that lid tighter than he ever had.
Tonight had taught him more than anything that to allow himself to get any closer to Rozanov, or to a world in which he could be himself, would be to put this entire painstakingly built glass house at risk of shattering. If he were to, somehow, find out that he was… whatever Rozanov had said he was… it would mean that his entire life was a lie, a carefully crafted ruse, and he couldn’t face that reality. He couldn’t face the idea that the most honest version of Shane Hollander might not have anywhere to fit in the life he was living, because then what was he supposed to do? Run away? Follow Rozanov on horses into the sunset? Fat fucking chance.
He would be a disappointment to his family, to the Metros, hell, to all of Canada. He would be a laughing stock. And they would see him for what he truly was.
The usual words filled his head — pathetic, burden, sissy.
But a new one had joined their ranks.
Coward.
It took Shane ten minutes to calm himself and breathe slowly enough to be able to think about leaving the car. He put a pair of sunglasses and a dark baseball cap on to try and give himself some semblance of anonymity, and saundered into the pharmacy. He grabbed a candy bar and a water bottle which he had no intention of actually enjoying, only meant to distract from the one thing he’s here to buy. Shane speed walked into the section euphemistically marked family planning and grabbed himself a bottle of small blue pills, hiding the label in his fist until he reached the self check-out. No fucking way he’s giving the teenage stoner cashier any opportunity to capitalize on his weakness, make a quick buck by selling “Shane Hollander buys boner pills” to the tabloids.
That night, he was much more convincing in his performance as he fucked Rose, paying expert attention to the rise and fall of his breath, the way her eyes fluttered shut, trying to perfectly imitate what he knew he should be doing, not thinking about Rozanov not thinking about Rozanov not thinking about Rozanov. He watched her come with his dick inside of her and felt a wave of relief followed by a wave of dread as she kissed him tenderly. He had protected the illusion, at least for another night. He would just take it one night at a time. There was no other option.
It wasn’t until he leaned over to plug his phone in that he saw the bombardment of messages and news notifications.
Somebody had taken a picture of him in the pharmacy parking lot, sobbing, with snot running down his face and his knuckles clenched white on the wheel, and posted it to Instagram. It had made news sites just minutes earlier.
Shane couldn’t stop himself from reading the comments, scrolling all the way to the bottom of his screen until he found the worst of the worst.
There’s no real men in hockey anymore and it’s honestly disgusting.
What a fucking pussy
what do you expect when the metros fill their first line with fags?
An embarrassment to Canada
If Rozanov’s vitriol hadn’t been enough, that night solidified it for Shane.
He walked to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water, wiping his tears away, swallowing all of his shame and horror down until it was buried deep enough that he couldn’t feel it, and put it right next to his feelings for Rozanov. In its place, a mask, cold and plastic and unfeeling, just perfect enough to keep anyone else’s doubts at bay, started to form, until he couldn’t tell where it ended and Shane began.
—
Shane glanced in the rearview mirror, took his sunglasses off and wiped his face furiously of tears, and then put them back on. He quickly got out of the car and walked back into the coffee shop, scanning the chairs and tables. A few students on their laptops, a pair of businessmen chatting. No sign of the dirty blonde curls that had terrorized his mind, that were glued to the back of his eyelids for years. He snuck his way past a few people in the line to grab the attention of the barista, whose focus was locked on the espresso shot he was pulling.
“Hi, sorry. Did you see that guy I was talking to? Did he leave?” He schooled the tremor in his voice to be quiet.
“Huh? Oh, sorry – I think he might have. But maybe check the bathroom? I’m not sure.”
“No worries, thanks.”
Shane gazed out the window at the parking lot, but the spot where Rozanov’s bright red Ferrari had been just minutes ago was now occupied by a light blue mini van. No sign of the car on the surrounding roads. In a last-ditch effort, he pushed his way through the door of the men’s bathroom. Empty. His legs acted before his brain did, and he ran to kneel in front of one of the toilets, one hand holding the door shut, and began violently throwing up.
It took him sixty seconds before he could stand up, his head slightly dizzy, his breath panting. He flushed the toilet and rinsed his mouth out at the sink, staring at himself in the mirror as he firmly gripped one edge of the counter. He had looked so nice this morning, and now, his flushed, splotchy, tear-streaked face stared back at him pathetically.
Shane pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled down to a contact he had ignored for a long time – Lily.
He pressed the call button. No ring. Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system.
Must be on Do Not Disturb or something. Called again – no ring. Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. The number you have dialed is not available.
He quickly typed out a message, debating and reformulating his words, until he sent it. The response he received was extremely prompt – immediate, actually, because it wasn’t a response at all.
Rozanov, I’m still at the cafe if you want to
Hi, I’m at the cafe. Can you talk?
I’m so sorry, I
I miss
Are you still around? I came back to the coffee shop.
⚠️ Not Delivered
Blocked.
—-
Shane opened the door of Rose’s extravagant West Hollywood home and set his keys and wallet on the awning. He wanted to collapse in on himself, but he buried that urge deep down, like he always did, and smiled at his wife, who was looking up from her phone.
“Hi honey, what took you so long?” Her warm, syrupy voice had come to calm Shane over the years, letting his nervous system know he was with someone who loved him, who knew him. This was no match for the stress coursing through his body. She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.
“Oh, uh, I ran into an old friend, actually. Well, more like an old coworker.”
“Oh really? Who?”
He struggled to get the words out, but kept his cool. “Do you remember Ilya Rozanov? He played in Boston for a while, and then here?”
Rose snorted. “Do I remember Ilya Rozanov? Shane, you couldn’t have lived in LA in the 2020s without being bombarded by his highlight reels. Well, that’s nice. How is he doing?”
“Good, I think. He coaches here now. Just, um, I hadn’t seen him in a while, and you know, it’s good to see how other players are doing.”
“That’s nice, dear.” She suddenly frowned. “Wait, where’s my tea?”
It was probably getting cold sitting on the little wooden table where he had spent 40 minutes lying to Ilya.
“Oh shit,” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry, Rose. I bought it for you, I swear, but I must have left it in the café.”
Her face looked disappointed. “Oh. But isn’t that the whole reason you went out?”
He frowned. “I’m so sorry, let me go out and get another one for you.” Rose tried to stop him, but Shane insisted.
“No, it’s really fine,” she said as she lightly grabbed his wrist, pulling him back towards her. She was faced by tear-filled eyes and Shane biting his cheek like he was trying not to cry.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
Shane just began sobbing and wrapped himself in Rose’s arms, chin perched on her shoulder as to be careful not to get any tears or snot on her (designer brand athletic wear shirt). “I’m so sorry.”
“Shane, it’s really fine, I’m pretty sure we have tea somewhere-“
“I’m sorry I’ll never be enough for you,” he shuddered, sobs wracking his chest.
There was so much bubbling under the surface of that statement. So much Rose would never, and could never, know — so much that Shane would never even admit to himself. What he was truly sorry for is that she would never be enough for him, that she would have to spend her entire life clawing for space in Shane’s fucked-up brain that was taken up by a mouthy, degrading Russian man. He loved Rose with all of his heart, like one loves a sister. But he knew he would never be able to love her in the way she deserved.
Rose rubbed his back and quietly shushed in his ear. She had seen many of Shane’s episodes over the years, and was never judgemental, always unfathomably kind to him. “Baby, look at me.” She took his face into her hands and wiped a tear from his cheek. “You are all I want. You are all I need. And I love you so much. You never, ever need to worry about not being enough for me. Ok, Shaney?”
He cringed internally at the nickname and gave her a resigned nod. “Ok.”
“What is this about, honey? Is something going on?”
Shane shook his head as he gently stepped back and removed himself from her grasp. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything.”
Shane was silent.
“Just — promise me you’ll tell me if something is happening, ok? Please, please don’t shut me out.”
“Ok. I promise.” It wasn’t the first lie he had told her, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“We’re in this thing together, but I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on. It’s you and me forever, remember?”
A flat smile tugged at Shane’s lips. “You and me forever. And Marigold.” He quickly kneeled down and pressed a gentle kiss to Rose’s slightly round stomach before turning towards their bedroom. “I think I just need some alone time, if that’s ok.”
“Of course, baby.” Shane kissed her sweetly, almost longingly, in the way of pretending that he had perfected, and shut the bedroom door behind him, his back sliding down the wooden door as he collapsed into sobs. He felt like he wanted to rip his skin off. After a few minutes, he heard Rose’s voice through the walls, choked up and punctuated by little sobs. He couldn’t make out everything she was saying on the phone, but the one thing he clearly caught made him grit his teeth and press his face angrily into his pillow.
”Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t want me to know him at all.”
40 minutes later, he emerged without a hint of his previous emotion, and began making lunch for his wife, falling into a familiar domesticity, shutting out his own mind, and getting ready to step out onto the red carpet in his role as Shane Hollander, Hockey’s Golden Boy and Hollywood’s Golden Husband. At least, until he could find the bar and allow himself the pleasure of forgetting, of dropping the mask he had so painstakingly created.
—
That evening, Ilya flipped on the television and made his way to the channel that was playing the Oscars red carpet coverage. He had never tuned in before — because honestly, who cares, and if he really wanted to go, he absolutely could’ve gotten an invite — but some morbid curiosity made him watch. He told himself that he wanted to see the actors from the action movie he’d seen with some friends a few months before. He mindlessly shoved popcorn into his mouth while silently judging the gaudy outfits of household name celebrities.
He perked up as a bright, plasticy voice of one of the commentators filled his living room.
“And Rose Landry has just finished her walk on the red carpet, looking absolutely stunning in a diamond blue evening gown. Wow, she looks absolutely incredible, just a class act. Rose is nominated tonight for Best Actress for her jaw-dropping performance in The Doorframe. She is of course accompanied by her husband, pro hockey player Shane Hollander, who is wearing a very classy suit. What a knockout! Here’s her chatting with one of our Entertainment Now correspondents.”
It cut to a live stream feed. Rose and Shane were in front of a camera, all smiles, holding hands. A young, curly-haired journalist held a branded microphone with a foam head.
“Wow, Rose, you look absolutely incredible tonight. Who are you wearing?”
“My dress is an Alexander McQueen original.”
“And what about you, Shane?”
“Well, it’s Rose’s night, why are you asking me?” He smiled, giving a calculated, performed chuckle, but Ilya knew this man too well, could see through his mask. He hated events like this. He certainly didn’t want to be there.
After the journalist finished her own laugh, he responded, “this is Christian Dior.” Since when did Shane know who Christian Dior was?
“Amazing. Rose, this is your third nomination for best actress, and critics have had nothing but praise to give for your performance in The Doorframe. Huge congratulations. How are you feeling heading into tonight?”
“Well, thank you so much. I’ve been so proud to be a part of the incredible team on this project, and I really do think we created something beautiful. But there are so many incredible, talented women in this category, I’ll be happy no matter who wins.”
“You are too cute. One last question, can you give us an insight into any upcoming projects? Where can we expect to see Rose Landry next?”
She and Shane gave one another a knowing look, the kind of glance exchanged by married couples who have their own secret language. “Well, actually, I’m planning to take a bit of a rest from new projects for a while, because,” she rested her hand on her stomach, “I’m so, so thrilled to share that Shane and I are expecting.”
The journalist’s jaw dropped, clearly knowing that she just got herself a million dollar clip. The way she phrased it made Ilya furious — “Shane and I”. Rose was pregnant, not Shane, as tempting as that idea was for a deranged, fleeting second.
“Oh my god, wow, that’s incredible! I thought I noticed something different, you must be glowing! Can you tell us any more?”
Rose blushed, and Shane kindly leaned into the microphone. “We’re due in June, and the baby is healthy so far. We’ll share more when we’re ready, but right now, we’re just so excited to grow our little family.” The anxiety of the crowded event that hid just behind his eyes had dissipated. He looked genuinely joyful.
“But really,” Shane continued, “tonight is about Rose and her incredible perfor-“
Ilya furiously grabbed his TV remote and hit the power button, watching the screen go black, just before chucking his remote across the room. It hit his bookshelf and the battery compartment came undone, spilling two batteries and a plastic lid onto his floor. He got up from the couch and stormed down to his home gym. Spent twenty minutes at the punching bag and thirty on the treadmill, kicked up to the highest speed, trying to sweat out his anger and drown out his thoughts with Russian club music.
He took a shower and furiously jerked off, coming with a married man’s name on his lips for far from the first time. The pleasure left his grasp quickly though, leaving a solemn emptiness and a truth he knew all too well. The tears fell, whimpering at first, then a few screaming sobs, and then more, his ribs convulsing so hard he thought he could faint. They eventually became silent, tired, resigned.
As he slipped into bed with still damp hair and checked his phone, his fingers betrayed him and searched “rose landry shane hollander”. News articles popped up, showing a stunning couples’ photoshoot announcing her pregnancy posted to Instagram just minutes after they left the red carpet. Just as mindlessly as he always scrolled on his phone, his thumb tapped the video: “WATCH: Rose Landry accepts Best Actress with a romantic message for husband Shane Hollander”
He watched as Rose, looking just as stunning as on the carpet and with a huge grin on her face, gingerly grabbed the golden statue and began thanking her co-stars, directors, agents, and family.
“Finally, none of my success would be possible, and none of this would matter, without my husband Shane. The support and love you give me every day never fails to stun me.”
The camera panned to Shane, whose eyes were soft and loving as he watched his wife achieve a lifelong dream. There was no question in Ilya’s mind. He loved her, deeply, more than he could ever love Ilya.
“You are my best friend, the best husband, and I can’t wait to see you become the best dad. This is for you, Shaney.” She lifted up the Oscar. “Thank you.” A raucous applause exploded in the audience.
He shut his phone and placed it face down on his nightstand, shuffling out of bed towards the kitchen and fishing a bottle out from the back of his freezer. He hadn’t had a drink in four months, promised himself to try and stay sober — as he got older, he really started to hate the person he became when he drank — but he obviously couldn’t have meant it if he was keeping this around. Ilya poured himself a glass of vodka and downed it in one sip. He poured himself another, and another, until he was more than a handful of drinks in and the old, familiar warmth filled the empty space in his heart where Shane was supposed to live.
He stumbled back to his bed and got into his covers. His last thought before he went to bed:
Today is the last day. Tomorrow, we start picking up the pieces. We forget about Shane.
It was a lie he had been telling himself almost nightly since he was 25.
It was a lie that he would tell himself for the rest of his life; a lie that he would repeat until the day Shane’s name, pushing to escape from his lips, would leave Ilya's body with his last breath.
—
TWO YEARS LATER
JUNE 2031
Shane bounced Marigold on his hip as he watched the movers place the final cardboard box on the floor of the truck, listening to the click of the metal hinge shutting, followed by black tires leaving his driveway to meet the asphalt of the road. A familiar anxiety filled the pit of his stomach as the white trailer holding most of his possessions started its over 40 hour drive.
He stepped back in through the open door, his eyes scanning the entrance to the house in Montreal that he had lived in for over a decade, an upgrade from the apartment he had bought his rookie year. Despite his marriage to Rose, he had spent a significant amount of time in this house alone with his own thoughts, reading hockey books and trying desperately to forget himself. The calm he found inside its walls was starting to slip through his fingers. He would keep the house, leave some furniture, but it felt far less lived in – and despite the fact that he lived in it, it had barely been lived in to begin with.
He glanced down at his phone and maneuvered to the wallet app to double check his one-way ticket.
AIR CANADA FLIGHT 24
MTL -> LAX
DEPARTING IN 2 HRS 15 MINS
Shane was about to open his four unread texts from Rose when Marigold started wailing. He shoved his phone in his pocket and began holding her with both arms, shushing her as she screamed bloody murder and pressed her face between Shane’s neck and shoulder. Her cries echoed through the empty house, against clinical white walls and wooden floors, making the hair on the back of his neck stick up. He tried to pat her back, run his fingers through her hair, make her feel safe.
“I know, baby, I know. I know it’s scary. I’m scared too.”
Despite the warmth of his daughter in his arms, a chill came over Shane’s body, as he stared out through a window into his front yard, barely registering the world around him.
A rare jolt of deep emotion pierced through the armor around his heart.
He wasn’t just scared.
He was fucking terrified.