He sipped coffee and eggnog and ate himself sick onChristmas 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 hostLNLin 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 tellhim 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 meLah-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 softthumpof a door shutting. “No, Rory andI 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 init.
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.”
