21
They broke for the holidays a few weeks after they returned to Los Angeles, Shane and Dean boarding a flight back to Oklahoma City the morning before Christmas. For Shane, it couldn’t have come soon enough.
After working through it in rehearsal, shooting the kiss had been easy. The crew had burst into spontaneous applause after the first take, making Lilah blush. They’d only needed to do it a handful of times, to his relief—for coverage, rather than performance. But even though he could tell they’d delivered, nothing had matched their kiss in that conference room. The one where they’d finally gotten it right. The one he was still thinking about weeks later.
Even though he told himself the kiss was staged, the emotions behind it scripted, there was nothing fake about the feel of that bee-stung bottom lip between his teeth, the impossible softness of her skin under his hands, his body’s uncontrollable response to her. He’d already known all that, of course, but the last thing he needed right now was a refresher. Now he had to fight to drag his gaze away from her mouth every time he was around her.
He knew Lilah was correct: nothing else should happen between them while they were still working together. They couldn’t risk it. Which was why he was so relieved that he had an excuse to escape across state lines.
Their dad picked them up at the airport, driving the beat-up pickup truck he’d had since Shane was in high school. He brushed off questions about what happened to the car Shane had bought for him.
“Damn thing’s in the shop,” he grumbled. “Those computers these new cars have, they’re always malfunctioning.”
“Meanwhile this one is a sneeze away from breaking down for good,” Dean said with a laugh.
Their Christmas celebration was small this year, his sister, Cassie, coming over with her family for a late breakfast and to open presents. Shane had brought an extra suitcase of gifts, mostly for the kids. They shrieked when they ripped the wrapping off the four-person laser tag set, the three of them immediately tearing the box open and heading into the backyard to play, Dean taking the last spot. The biggest reaction, though, had come when Cassie had opened Shane’s card containing a blank check to stock all the classrooms at her underfunded middle school, his face heating in embarrassment as she burst into tears.
He sipped coffee and eggnog and ate himself sick on Christmas cookies as the day stretched into the evening. After helping his mother do the dishes after dinner, he ducked upstairs to his room for a quick breather, pulling out his phone for the first time all day.
He scrolled through his notifications, opening an email from Renata he’d ignored earlier. It took him a couple tries to process it: it was about a movie he’d turned down a few years earlier, an indie dark comedy set behind the scenes at a children’s TV show. He’d passed on countless projects over the years, most of them long forgotten, but that was one of the few he still regretted. He’d loved the script, and had come close to taking it, but his self-doubt had won out in the end. They hadn’t needed him, anyway; it had become a surprise hit, launching the career of the unknown actor who’d been cast instead. Now, it was being turned into a premium cable series, and that part was up for grabs again.
The executive producer behind the show was a legend in the comedy world, his empire anchored by his long-running sketch show, Late Night Live. That was the thing Shane had skipped over the first time, his stomach lurching nervously when he read the email over again and realized they wanted him to guest host LNL in January. If he did well, Renata seemed to imply, the part in the other show was his.
Shane lowered the phone and stared at the screen.
His first instinct was to say no, like he always did. Play it safe, stick to what he knew. But he didn’t exactly have that option anymore. He tried to envision himself walking down this new road that had unfurled itself in front of him. It was the best offer he’d had so far, but there was no excitement there, only pure, undiluted fear.
What he really needed was a second opinion. From someone other than Renata, or his family. Someone he could trust to tell him the truth, who he knew would see the situation clearly, unclouded by their personal feelings for him, their unfounded faith in his abilities.
He scrolled through his contacts and hit “dial” before he lost his nerve.
The phone rang and rang, his heart sinking by the second. This was stupid. He should just hang up. As he lowered the phone, the call connected.
“Hey, fuckface,” a voice said with a giggle on the other end. It sounded like Lilah, but there was something off about it. He opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated.
“Is this Rory?”
More giggling, then a short scuffle. He heard Lilah’s voice, muffled, sounding like she was stifling a laugh. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” Then, into the phone, unmistakably her: “Shane?”
“Lilah?”
“Are you drunk?” It was teasing, not accusatory. Borderline flirtatious, even—or maybe he was reading too much into it.
“Why? Because I called you?”
“Your accent. You called me Lah-luh. It always gets stronger when you’ve been drinking.”
“It’s probably just from being home. You should hear me around the guys in my dad’s shop.”
“Hmm, no thank you.”
He laughed. On the other end of the line, he heard the sounds of a door sliding open, then footsteps climbing the stairs. “You calling to wish me a merry Christmas, then?” she asked. “Because you know I don’t celebrate.”
“Not exactly. I, um…I wanted to ask your opinion on something. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
He heard the soft thump of a door shutting. “No, Rory and I were just out on the porch having our annual cigarette and talking shit. But we were about to head in anyway.”
“Talking shit about who?”
“Everyone. That’s what sisters are for.” She let out a sigh, like she’d sat down. “So, what’s up?”
He wondered which parent’s house she was staying at. If she was in her childhood bedroom. Whether they’d left it a time capsule or wiped it clean of every trace of the teenager she was.
Shane had never lived in this house; he’d bought it for his parents a few years ago, after his season-six raise. All the furniture in the guest room he was staying in was new and unfamiliar. Other than the prize bass his dad had caught fifteen years ago, stuffed and mounted in a place of honor on the wall, it could’ve been a hotel room for how connected he felt to anything in it.
He wondered if she, too, felt untethered from her past, uncertain of her future, unsure what it meant to feel at home.
But that wasn’t why he’d called.
After he’d explained the whole thing, she was silent for a long moment.
“Whoa,” she said.
He sat down on his bed. “Yeah.”
“That’s big.”
“I know.”
“Are you gonna do it? Host, I mean?”
He exhaled. “I don’t know. Would you?”
“Absolutely not,” she said without hesitation.
He laughed, a quick, surprised burst. “Really?”
“No way. I’m not funny.”
“What are you talking about? You’re funny.”
“I’m not good at comedy, though. Especially not sketch comedy. Plus the whole ‘live’ thing, doing it all in a week, everything changing up until the last minute…It sounds like my personal nightmare, honestly. I wouldn’t do well under those circumstances.” She paused. “I bet you would, though.”
His breath caught. “Yeah?”
Her voice was quiet, almost dreamy. “Yeah. You’re a natural, Shane. It’s really annoying, but it’s true. I mean, you literally had zero experience before you got on the show, and you carried it for three seasons after I left. Not everyone could do that. I don’t know if I could’ve. I think you could probably do anything you set your mind to.”
He closed his eyes, her compliment moving him more than he expected.
Not just the compliment. Her genuine belief in him. He knew she wasn’t the type to dish out empty praise to fluff someone’s ego—especially his.
To his surprise, she spoke again, still soft. “What are you afraid of?”
His throat tightened to the point that he needed to take a few deep breaths before he could respond. “Making an idiot of myself, I guess. Closing doors because of it. I’ve never been a big risk-taker. This feels like a pretty high-stakes way to figure out if I’m cut out for comedy or not.”
He heard her chuckle under her breath. “I get that. But you know what makes you so good?”
“What?”
“You’re an amazing listener. Whoever you’re in a scene with, you just…connect with them, effortlessly. You know how to meet them where they are without even trying. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’re capable of more than you think.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you drunk?”
“Why? Because I’m being so nice?”
“Well…yeah.”
She laughed, too, low in her throat. “No. I’m not drunk. I guess I must mean it.”
“So you think I should do it, then?”
“I thought we already covered this. Yes, I think you should do it. Guess you’re not such a good listener after all.” There was an exasperated edge to her voice, her softness from just a moment ago gone.
Ordinarily, her snapping at him like that would’ve irritated him, but he could tell there was no real malice behind it—just self-consciousness at giving him a glimpse of her sentimental side. When she got like this, she reminded him of a cat that had rolled over to expose its fluffy underbelly but was all claws as soon as someone tried to touch it.
God help him, he found it kind of cute. And he wasn’t even a cat person.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Good.”
They lapsed into silence.
He should say thanks and hang up. There was no reason for the conversation to continue, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to end the call first.
Then, to his surprise, she spoke again.
“Will Dean go with you? Whatever you do next. Or does he have his own plans?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It doesn’t really seem like he’s interested in staying with me.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Did I make things weird between you two?”
“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t just you. We all played our part in making it weird. I think it brought some things to the surface that he and I have never really dealt with.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just typical sibling stuff, I guess. He was the one who got all the attention growing up—quarterback, prom king, all that. I’m sure he never saw himself…I mean…” He hesitated, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding like a dick.
“Living in your shadow?” Lilah filled in promptly.
He let out a gruff laugh. “I guess. But it’s probably for the best that he’s been kept so busy all these years, otherwise he’d probably be out in the desert leading his own cult or something by now.”
“I was always jealous of you two, honestly. Getting paid to hang out all day. I tried to get Rory to come be my assistant after she graduated, but she thought it would mess up our relationship if she worked for me. Plus, she hates L.A.”
“She was probably right.”
“Oh, she was absolutely right. I still miss her like crazy, though.” He heard rustling on the other end of the phone, like she was shifting positions. “Were you guys always this close? Even when you were kids?”
“Yeah. I was really protective of him. When we were younger…” He paused, seized by nerves all of a sudden. Why was he about to tell her this? Why did he want to? There was something about the detachment of being on the phone with her, no distractions besides her throaty, familiar voice murmuring in his ear, playing tricks on him, making him feel safe with her.
“When we were younger,” he repeated, “our parents had…some problems. With, um. With drugs.”
There was a long pause. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. And it was on and off. They got clean for good when I was nine. Sorry, I mean they stopped using. Not supposed to say ‘clean.’ It’s judgmental.” He tried to clear the sudden hoarseness out of his throat. “I don’t really like to talk about it. It feels weird, bringing it up. Or, like, unfair to them, almost. Because it was so long ago, and they’re so different now. They’re amazing parents—and grandparents—and they worked fucking hard to get there.”
“It’s not unfair,” Lilah said, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard it. “It sounds like it was really tough.”
“Yeah.” His own voice sounded distant to him, the words tumbling out unselfconsciously. “It kind of feels like a dream, almost. Or like it happened to someone else. I mostly remember things feeling unstable all the time. We moved around a lot. Sometimes we lived with my grandparents. I don’t know. My therapist told me trauma can impact your memory, but I don’t really feel that traumatized by it. She calls it ‘little “t” trauma,’ which I guess can still mess you up as much as the bigger stuff. But she’s been helping me see all the places it still pops up sometimes.”
“Wait, you’re seeing a therapist? By yourself? Since when?”
“Oh,” he said. “I got some names from Dr. Deena, a couple of months ago. I just thought…since she’s helped us so much. And it helped my parents, too. Might be worth a shot to help me figure my own shit out.”
She was silent again, so he continued, filling the space, trying not to get self-conscious. “Anyway. I think that’s why my relationship with Dean is the way it is. I don’t know if I ever grew out of feeling like I was one of his parents.”
“That makes a lot of sense. I’m sure he’s grateful for it. Then, and now.”
“Mmm. Maybe not so much now.”
Lilah laughed a little in the back of her throat. “Maybe not.” She paused. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Yeah. Sure,” he said.
He thought the conversation might end there, but for some reason, he still couldn’t make himself get off the phone. He found himself telling her about how his dad’s annual tradition of dressing up as Santa for Cassie’s kids had been complicated by his decision to grow a long, white beard of his own over the past year, which had confused rather than delighted them. In return, she filled him in on how she, Rory, Rory’s husband, and their newborn daughter would be shuttling back and forth between their parents’ places practically daily for the duration of their visit.
“Divorced for twenty years, still live within five miles of each other, still fight every time they see each other. How’s that for dysfunctional?”
“Sounds familiar, actually,” he said, gratified when she laughed.
It turned out she was, in fact, currently in her childhood bedroom, which had been transformed into her dad’s office—with the exception of a single shelf crammed with every ribbon, trophy, and certificate she or Rory had ever won.
“I think you could probably fit all my high school achievements on a coaster,” Shane said ruefully. “Cassie went through first with straight A’s, so all our teachers were set up for disappointment once Dean and I came around.”
“Didn’t you tell me you were a punk in high school? Did I make that up?”
“Yeah, I was. Kind of. I was pretty much over it by the time I graduated. I liked the music okay, but mostly I just wore a lot of black and rode around on an old Triumph motorcycle that my dad helped me fix up. The worst I ever did was give myself a mohawk, but my mom got upset, so I buzzed it off after, like, two days.”
“But she was fine the motorcycle?”
“Go figure.”
“That’s pretty fucking sweet,” she said. “But not very punk of you. I thought making your mom upset was the whole point.”
“Actually, the whole point was to make girls think I was cool and tortured and mysterious.”
“I’m not even gonna ask if that worked.” He heard her shift, the phone rustling, like maybe she’d gone from sitting to lying down. “You know what I’ve always wondered?” she asked.
“What?” Shane lay down, too, staring up at the ceiling fan as it circled lazily above him. Maybe it was because they were already on the subject, but he was reminded of being back in high school, when he would fall asleep with his flip phone next to him on the pillow because he and his girlfriend could never agree on who should hang up first.
“How did you only end up with one tattoo? I feel like you should have a few basement stick-and-pokes, at least. Or an eighteenth-birthday mistake.”
He paused, tracing his finger around the decorative groove at the edge of the headboard as he thought. “I don’t know. I mean, I came close a few times. But I was always trying on different things when I was growing up, different personas, trying to figure out who I was supposed to be. I never really felt the urge to commit to anything permanently like that.”
She went silent, and he wondered if he’d admitted something.
He changed the subject. “What were you like? Queen of the theater geeks? Star of every play?”
“Pretty much. I took myself very seriously.”
“Shocker. You were right to, though. It’s kind of amazing.”
“What?”
“That you always knew exactly what you wanted. That you made it happen. But I’m sure it’s not surprising, to people who knew you back then. I bet it was obvious. What you had, what you were capable of.”
He heard more rustling, like she was moving again. “What would you have thought of me, do you think? If we’d known each other at that age.”
He considered it. “Honestly? I probably would’ve called you a nerd to my friends, then secretly thought about you when I was jerking off.”
“So, the same as now, basically.”
He snorted. “Fair enough.” He paused, weighing whether it was worth pushing his luck, his hand sliding down to rest on his belt buckle. “Is this the part where I ask you what you’re wearing?”
“Wanna see for yourself?”
His heart leapt at the seduction in her voice. Before he could respond, she’d already switched it to a video call. When he accepted and her face appeared on his screen, he burst into surprised laughter.
She was lying on her bed, propped against the pillows, no makeup, hair in a messy bun, wearing an oversized hoodie in a hideous shade of purple emblazoned with “Fort Washington High School Presents: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” across the chest.
You look beautiful.
It popped into his head before he knew what to do with it. Thankfully, she spoke before he did something stupid like say it out loud.
“Wait, let me show you the best part.” She turned the camera around so he could get a look at her legs, which were covered in baggy fleece pants printed with cartoon menorahs and dreidels. “Better not let these babies near a real menorah. Or any open flame, really.” She flipped the camera back to her face. “How hard are you right now?”
“I already came,” he deadpanned. “I thought you weren’t religious, though?”
“You’re not religious, and you still celebrate Christmas.”
“Well, yeah, that’s because it’s—”
“—everywhere?” she finished. “Maybe us secular Jews deserve hideous holiday merch, too. This is how you know Hanukkah has really made it to the mainstream: you can buy as much polyester menorah garbage as you want.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Anyway. Are we having phone sex or what?”
“Are we?”
“I don’t know, you asked what I was wearing.”
“Well, in that case, can you put your hood up?”
“Why?”
“The sexy Grimace look is kind of doing it for me.”
She snickered, pulling her hood over her head and tightening the drawstrings until there was just a tiny circle of skin visible through the purple fabric, her nose poking out over the edge. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.
“You like that, you sick fuck?”
“Ohhh yeah.” He let out a moan, and she laughed harder, loosening the strings until the rest of her face came back into view.
He was still laughing when they hung up. When he looked down at the screen, he was startled to see they’d been talking for over an hour.
He wandered down to the kitchen, refilling his water glass in the sink. He turned and practically leapt out of his skin when he spotted his mother, sitting silently in her armchair in the living room.
“Jesus, Mom, I didn’t see you.”
His mother didn’t say anything, just looked at him guiltily.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Finally, she exhaled, a giant cloud of candy-scented nicotine vapor enveloping her face. Shane laughed. “I thought Dad doesn’t like you vaping in the house?”
“I think what he really means by that is he doesn’t like me doing it in front of him.”
“Sure. Of course. I’ll be sure to ask him about it tomorrow.” Shane sprawled on the couch opposite her, resting his bare feet against the arm.
“Well, maybe it should be our secret,” she said with a wry grin. “Speaking of, are you gonna tell me who you were up there talking to that’s got you smiling like that?”
Shane felt the grin fade from his face. “Nothing. No one. Like what? I mean…” He fumbled with his words, his mother’s grin widening. “I was just on the phone with Lilah. For a second. About a work thing.”
“At midnight on Christmas? Must have been pretty important,” his mother said, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I called it, you know.”
“Called what?”
“You two. After you took me to that awards show. Do you remember that?”
He did.
Intangible’s first season had been an Emmy darling, garnering nine nominations covering every major category, including for Shane and Lilah—one of the few times they were nominated for the same award in the same year. Shane had known everyone was expecting him and Serena to make their red-carpet debut at the ceremony, but he’d brought his mother instead, thankfully only inspiring a fraction of the tasteless jokes he’d braced himself for about his affinity for older women.
He’d been seated behind Lilah, both of them on the aisle, so he was forced to stare at the nape of her neck for the entire show. Her upswept hair, the elegant line of her shoulders in her strapless gown—except when Richard’s arm was in the way. Occasionally, one of them would lean over to whisper something in the other’s ear, secrets that would make the recipient smile or raise their eyebrows or crane their head to look at something. He’d tried his best to ignore it, but it was right the fuck in front of him.
At one point, she’d reached over to place her hand on the back of Richard’s neck, and he’d jumped, before shrugging her off. She’d dropped her hand back into her lap, chastened. Shane knew why: the theater was freezing, and her hands tended to be cold even under the best circumstances. He could practically feel her fingers sending chills down the back of his own neck as he watched the two of them. It made sense for Richard to react like that; Shane had done the same plenty of times. Still, for some reason, witnessing the whole interaction had irritated him so much that he’d had to get up and take a lap around the lobby before returning to his seat.
They’d both lost, which hadn’t surprised him. But when they’d announced the winner in Shane’s category, Richard had leaned over and murmured something to Lilah that made her laugh harder than she had at anything all night. That was the first time in Shane’s life that he’d understood what it felt like to literally see red, acid churning in the pit of his stomach.
“I thought you were gonna burn a hole in the back of her head, the way you were staring at her,” his mother continued, dragging him back into the present.
“Well, we didn’t really get along back then.”
His mother just smiled. “And what about now?”
“Now…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Now we do, I guess. Sometimes. But it’s complicated.”
“It seemed complicated then, too,” his mother said, laughing a little. “It’s funny, huh? The life you’ve made for yourself out there. I don’t think any of us could’ve seen it coming. I mean…” She gestured around at the house. “We wouldn’t be here without it, for starters.”
“Yeah,” Shane said quietly. “It’s amazing. I’m really lucky.”
She turned to look at him, her gaze soft. “Forget lucky. Are you happy, baby?”
Something in his chest twisted painfully at the endearment, and he closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I love doing the show. I do. I’d do it forever, if I could. But the rest of it…”
He trailed off. Even with the leg up of coming off a hit show today, he could easily become That Guy from That Thing tomorrow. If he wanted to stay in the industry, it would be a constant battle for the next job. The schmoozing, the hustling, the disappointments, the humiliations. He had no idea how anyone handled it without burning out and breaking down.
“Is it ungrateful of me? To think about getting out, throwing away this opportunity that so many other people would die for?”
“You gave them nine years of your life, that doesn’t sound like throwing it away to me. And if you’re so worried about other people, maybe the selfless thing to do would be to step aside and let them have your spot.” Her voice was neutral, though she was obviously making fun of him. He laughed.
“Good point. But I have no fucking clue what else I would do. No degree, no other experience. Plus…” He waved around at the house, in the same manner she’d done earlier. “How else am I going to keep y’all living like this?”
“Now, listen,” his mother said, her voice suddenly stern. “I don’t want you to take us into account for a second when you’re deciding what to do next. We don’t need any of this stuff. If we had to sell this house tomorrow, we would. It’s too damn big for just the two of us, anyway.”
“But I want—”
“Shane.” She cut him off, then chuckled to herself. “Well, we tried our hardest, but I guess we didn’t fuck the three of y’all up too much after all. Lucky you grew up as well as you did, wanting to take care of us now.”
“Mom—”
“Let me finish.” He turned his head to look at her, her face as serious as he’d ever seen it. “As your mother, all I care about is that you’re safe, and loved, and happy, and standing on your own two feet. Anything else is gravy. And I hope you know I’m so proud of you. Me and your dad both.” She grinned self-deprecatingly. “Whatever that’s worth, at your age. Your parents being proud of you.”
Shane was speechless. All he could do was nod, his chest heavy.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, once he was able. “It’s worth a lot. And…I’m proud of you, too.”
She leaned over and stroked his hair.
“Although,” he continued, “I kind of wish you’d said you wanted an even bigger house, and a Ferrari, and, like, a hat made of diamonds or something. That would make things a lot easier. You’d be looking at the new host of the American edition of I’m Not Swallowing That.”
His mother threw back her head and laughed, full-throated and raspy.
A laugh that felt like home, even if the house they were sitting in didn’t.