The Cranky Bisexual

Ilya sits on a thick blanket on the snow covered hillside watching a translucent image of eight year old him skate circles and figure eights on the ice, dodging occasional snowballs thrown by his laughing mother. Their secret pond hidden in the woods. It had been a silly, joyful little haven he and his mother used to escape to. Not nearly as often as Ilya would have liked, but it was better than nothing. They never actaully discussed keeping it a secret either. She never sat him down or pointed a finger in his face for a stern “your father can never know about his place” speech. No, it was just . . . understood. This place belonged to them.

Suddenly a second, more weary, version of his mother plunks down next to him and swipes the cigarette from his lips with an admonishing scowl. “You shouldn’t be smoking, it’s terrible for your health.”

“Not when I’m dreaming it isn’t!” Ilya whines as he tries and fails to reclaim the smoldering stick.

Irina sighs and watches the memory of herself throwing snowballs at little Ilya for a moment, then takes a long, deep drag off the cigarette before turning to blow the smoke in her son’s face.“Then at least don’t do it while I’m here, please.” Her smile is soft and kind but her eyes are haunted, like they hold the ghosts of a thousand tragic legacies stretching back through unknown expanses of time. “Good mothers don’t let their babies hurt themselves.”

“Okay mama.”

“Ever.”

“I said okay!”

The cigarette, along with all trace of its scent, vanishes in a blink. For a long while they sit watching their happy younger versions play on the ice in cozy silence. But then he blinks again, and suddenly Little Ilya is wearing a hockey jersey with his name stamped on the back in bold, blood red letters.

“Rozanov,” His mother spits bitterly, “God I hate that you’re stuck with that man’s name!”

It occurs to him with a jolt of surprise that he doesn’t even know his mother’s given name. The one from before Grigori lured her into marriage with promises of stability and comfort.

I must have heard it at some fucking point, right? He thinks. Someone must have mentioned . . . if that’s true then it’s still in here . . .  somewhere . . . Ilya wracks his tingling, frustrated brain, digging through a mishmash of dim recollections from his childhood all piled together in a disorganized heap. Her name . . . her fucking unmarried name . . . IT HAS TO BE HERE!

“Lebedeva.” She mutters, gently stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. “Daughter of two people who never liked me much.”

“Irina Lebedeva.” As Ilya mutters the name over and over again the ‘Rozanov’ on the back of Little Ilya’s jersey fades until only a blank space remains. He keeps stareing at the space, waiting for the name ‘Lebedevov’ to appear. He needs it to appear. With all the intensity he can muster he demands it . . .

“Too late to change anything now.” His mother says quietly. Her fragile voice shakes with apology as she leans in and presses her forehead against his temple. “It was what it was. Is what it is." Breath from another heavy sigh warms the side of Ilya's face before she leans back again and ruffles his hair. "Stupid useless past, yes? . . . On second thought, maybe I should let you have a smoke.”

Ilya rubs sweaty palms together under the table. They’re cold. Why the fuck am I so nervous?  He wonders. Shane is right, they’re absolutely going to say yes and then we’ll have tea and cookies! But his body apparently isn’t convinced and he has to press a firm palm down on one knee to stop it from bouncing frenetically. When he feels Shane’s warm hand settle on top of his, patting gently, the touch provides him with a rush of confidence. 

Okay, let’s do this. He clears his throat and jumps in. “So, you both know a little bit about my childhood. How it was . . . not so nice.”

“You’ve given us that impression, yes.” David confirms. He’s always had a gut feeling about Ilya’s past. That a lot of his emotional wounds slice deeper than he’ll ever admit to anyone. Possibly even including Shane.

“Well, most of it was because of my dad. Even a lot of the way my brother behaves. It was, well, I think it’s a lot to do with, the start was . . .” he stops to get his thoughts in order and do a little re-sorting. Maybe I’m overthinking this . . . .

There was no real reason for him to unpack decades of ugly backstory in agonizing detail for the Hollanders before getting to his question, but . . . somehow telling them feels right. So he takes a deep, steadying breath, and keeps going. “My father got his hooks in Alexei when we were very little and, um, ‘created a monster’ I think is the expression. Now that I’m older I can see it more clearly. The way he pitted us against eachother, always rewarding Alexei for acting like an asshole–well, ‘being typical boy’ is what he called it. So, my brother was constantly allowed to misbehave while I had to be levelheaded and so fucking focused all the time or else I would ‘bring shame to our family.’” 

“What a lovely man,” Yuna mutters under her breath. 

“So very.” Ilya nods. “But then every time I did succeed he would brag at the top of his lungs to everyone we knew. To all of Moscow. And totally ignore my brother. Every time I won anything it meant, well . . . Alexei became invisible boy. So,” he shrugs, “we grew up resenting eachother very, very badly. And my poor mother–” he pauses to get control of the growing lump in his throat and waits a moment for it to shrink. “My father, he . . . he cut her down all the time. My mother. Even in public. In front of other people. At family gatherings, formal events, even in the grocery store. Whenever he wanted to feel big, someone else had to feel small. And I think he felt the biggest in front of an audience.”

David frowns and shakes his head in harsh disapproval of the man he’d never get the opportunity to punch in the balls. “I bet you're right, Ilya, that kind of bully thrives on attention. You all deserved better.” 

“You really did.” Yuna shudders and wraps her arms around her midsection, hugging tight as a means of self-comfort. To grow up in a home where cruelty was not only common, but blatant and intentional as well? It was something she couldn’t even fathom. Her own parents certainly hadn’t been perfect; but the few genuine emotional scars they’d inflicted during her childhood had been unintentional, and always rooted in a place of good intention, however misguided. If she could have Grigori Rozanov in front of her right now she would shred him to fucking pieces. 

Ilya watches Yuna’s jaw tense and her eyes blaze and can’t help but love the way she’s so visibly pissed off on his behalf. It makes him suspect that anyone who tried to bully Shane as a child is probably lucky they survived. “Yes, my father was an awful, horrible man. Annnnnnnd I suppose that brings me to the point.  I want to be rid of him. Completely free.”

“Well he is, y’know . . . dead,” David points out the obvious with a confused frown. “I don’t know how much more free of him you could get.”

Ilya chuckles despite the heavy mood. He loves David. “I know this. I know he can never hurt me again, but, I . . . I still carry his name. Still a Rozanov, and, um, I decided last night that I don’t want to be. Not anymore. So, Yuna, David,” he looks each of them respectively in the eye and nods, “with your permission I would like to take your family’s name. Just yours. Shane and I can come back if you’d like to discuss–”

“Discuss? Are you kidding?!” David yelps, leaping out of his chair so he can devastate his son in law’s ribs with a crushing hug.

“Unf,” Ilya grunts as David yanks him to his feet. This man is much stronger than he looks!

“Oh Ilya, you are just the most precious boy!” Yuna warbles, tilting her head up and blinking rapidly to hold the threat of tears at bay as she gets to her feet and waits for David to make room for her. 

Shane, meanwhile, remains seated, content to gaze up at this beautiful tableau. His family. The Hollanders.

“Up, up!” Yuna waves her son over to join the huddle. 

For now I'm stuck in hell. No other word for it. I see things about him and Rose Landry all the fucking time. Everywhere. The media loves them. Fans love them. I hate it. Mostly because I can’t stop clicking on them; the bullshit articles and tiktoks and entertainment tv. They make me want to scream and punch things but yes, yes, I do watch every single one. I can't stop myself and I don't fucking understand why. Maybe I just want to suffer, is that it? Fine, whatever. Who cares anyway? Fuck, why do I have to be this person?! I should just be boring like Hollander.

STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM! . . . Oh look, another insta post. 

I click. Fuck me.

I try meeting new people at clubs, too. Mostly fail except a few decent blowjobs, but nothing great. And always I have to think of Shane to finish. No, he is Hollander! I yell at myself. If there is a second chance for us, you can never EVER call him Shane again! 

Honestly, now I’m glad he freaked out and ran away. Becoming more like real couple would have been bad for both of us, only playing pretend. I see that now. Yes, Hollander did the right thing. Maybe for stupid fucking reasons, but in the long run it will be better. If there is a ‘long run’ for us. There might not be. He and Rose could get married and have a million boring babies. 

Jesus, what a fucking nightmare my life is.  

I read final picks for All-Star game and see his name on the list. He will be there. More than that, we are on same team. This is either really great news for me, or terrible. We'll find out, I guess. The league hosts a social event for the All-Star players every year. A mixer. ‘Meet-and-Greet’ they call it because Americans like things that rhyme. It’s meant to be for team bonding since not all the players know eachother well. Whatever, I don’t care. Is stupid. Or it would be stupid, except that it will be a chance for Hollander and I to . . .

I mean, at least we will talk. Yeah, for sure talk. Then again, he might not even show up to the meet and greet. Is not mandatory. I bet won't show up. Boyfriend of biggest ever movie star has no time for peasant hockey players, right? We're beneath him now. 

Yes, I am bitter. I like bitter, is normal for me. Fuck off.

But what if he does show up and brings Rose as his date? 

Fucking nightmare. At first I am dreading this until Svetlana points out something interesting. The night before I leave for Florida she notices all the pictures she can find of Rose and Hollander online are more than two weeks old. I have no idea why she went hunting for this stuff, but she did. Anyhow, yes, fans are still making their tiktoks and whatever about them, but all with old material. At least according to Svetlana.

Maybe they break up? . . .  No, probably he just convinced her to give up being fun and stay home together reading New Yorker until they die. Just in case, though . . .

The day of social mixer I put on my bright red hawaiian shirt. Is new. Not me at all but I need to stand out so he’ll notice me even in a crowded room. If he avoids me on purpose, then . . . well, at least I'll know to keep my distance. For now. But if he and Rose are over I bet a million dollars and a pickle we hook up this weekend. He must miss me. For sure he misses me.

Don't worry, I tell myself. If Hollander is single again it's a done deal between us. The moment we see eachother, back to normal. I convince myself of this. I have to believe it or I’ll go crazy. 

His room, my room, wherever. It will be as if all these bullshit months never happened. As if I never asked him to stay the night like stupid fucking idiot and he never went running into the arms of that, that . . . dammit, I do try really hard not to hate her. Is not her fault. Anyway, if she's out of the picture things can go back to normal. Same as before.

I enjoy him in person when I can, flirt over text when we’re apart, and that’s how life will be. Not so bad, right?

I sit at the bar, order a beer, and wait. I try to sip slowly, but by the time he finally shows up my drink is almost gone. He sits down next to me. Close enough to touch. Or lick, like popsicle. I tell my stomach and heart to calm down because they’re doing crazy things to my body and if they don’t chill the fuck out I might throw up. 

Get yourself together Rozanov! So he’s here, so what? Means nothing. For all you know his serious girlfriend hot sexy beautiful big time movie star Rose Landry, winner of two Golden Globes and an Emmy and co-owner of a sushi bar in California is just running late. Will show up any minute. Probably wearing Armani Beauty makeup too unless those four commercials she did were bullshit. FUCK!!! FUCKING SAY SOMETHING RIGHT NOW!