27. Shannon
CHAPTER 27
SHANNON
The days that follow our return from the cottage are filled with silence.
Max throws himself into work, his favourite thing. He makes an appearance at rookie camp first, and then…I don’t know what else. Captain things. He doesn’t include me in any of it, a clear punishment for refusing to sleep with Francois, threatening divorce, and then…doing what we did with Russ.
And I refuse to be sorry.
I wasn’t the one who invited his teammate to join us. It’s not my fault that in the end, I enjoyed it more than he liked.
But I do miss how he used to lean on me as the Queen WAG.
So when I get an email from someone at the team foundation, asking me to step in as the chair of the Highlander Ball committee, I leap at the chance to do something, anything. The winter gala event raises money for the children’s hospital and other local charities, and also celebrates the top community fundraisers, putting them in front of the big corporations who sponsor the team and the arena. I copy Max on my reply accepting the job.
And then I call my favourite spa and book myself in for some self-care because I want to look my best for the first committee meeting I’ll be joining.
The next day, we happen to leave the house at the same time. The silence is most profound as we politely jockey for access to the garage. He pulls out first, then I follow in my car. I catch up to him at the red light leaving our neighbourhood. He speeds away from me as soon as it turns green, and in the distance, I see him turn toward the highway. I head the other direction, into Ancaster Village.
The spa is at the end of the picturesque main street, across from a bakery and beside a sporting goods store that has a family law office above it—very small town vibes, even though we’re technically on the edge of a pretty big city.
It reminds me of the town where I grew up, but with a lot more polish.
And when I was a kid, I couldn’t afford a day at the spa.
Max’s money makes my life easier in an infinite number of ways.
Inside, I hand over the credit card that he takes care of every month, to pay for the services that help keep me looking the way he likes. Smooth, soft, polished—every inch the perfect wife.
He joked on our first date about how I was too much for him, and I knew what he meant. When I protested that I was a small town girl at heart, he asked me if I was the homecoming queen or the class valedictorian, as if those were genuinely the only two options he could imagine. When he found out I only had my GED, he almost didn’t ask me out on another date. If he hadn’t already followed me on social media, I think he wouldn’t have. But then I posted another photo of myself on a yacht, and he was hooked right back in.
In the end, I think he saw mouldable potential in me. After all, I’d transformed myself from an edgy emo goth girl with a hick accent to a glittering, cosmopolitan black swan. Sure, I had edges he didn’t like, but I, like a silly fool, was a little too honest with him in the early days about my eagerness to please. I would have agreed to anything to step inside the shield he represented against the outside world. It turned out, I only needed to transform myself into the girl next door—and sign a prenup that prevents me from accessing any of his hockey earnings if we ever break up.
“What are we doing today?” asks the receptionist. “Body wrap and polish, hot stone massage, the radiance facial, and the mani-pedi?”
The usual. I get waxed on an alternate schedule, like clockwork. Homecoming queens don’t have body hair in Max’s fantasy world. “That’s right.”
“Here’s the usual form to fill out, Mrs. Tilman. You know the drill. Have a seat and someone will bring you your favourite lemon tea.”
I do like the ritual of coming here. Sometimes I have the aestheticians come to my house, and I invite the other wives and girlfriends for a day of pampering, and that’s nice in a different way.
But today I needed the setting for the pampering just as much as the pampering itself.
The lemon tea does wonders for my spirits. The polishing scrub and warm wrap helps, too. The hollow feeling in my chest is smaller and fainter than it has been in a week when I get handed over to the massage therapist, who recognizes me. She’s worked on me many times over the last year, and she immediately starts by asking about my trip to the cottage.
“How did that party in Muskoka go?”
I was here two weeks ago the morning after I sent Russ that text offering to help. He hadn’t replied yet, and I’d just assumed…
Well, assuming is foolish.
Right after I left my massage, he’d texted me back and said he had it covered. In hindsight, I know now that was because of Emery.
I don’t know what to make of his girlfriend. Or…his casual hook-up friend?
We’ve texted a few times since I’ve been home. She likes to send me TikToks about Russ, which from anyone else I would interpret as next-level subtle he’s mine behaviour, but Emery doesn’t give off that energy at all.
It’s like she thinks we have him in common. Like we’re some platonic polyamorous triad.
Sweet summer child.
I clear my throat. “It was really nice. I didn’t end up having to do much. The guy who hosted had it all under control.”
I can’t imagine Max organizing a last-minute party for the team by himself. That’s my job, and if he didn’t have me…
He would have someone else. Literally, anyone else.
Nausea roils inside me, fierce and fast and unexpected.
By stripping me of his usual hockey-related wife tasks, Max has stripped me of everything that I am to him.
He doesn’t have any interest in repairing our relationship because he knows I’ll do it for the both of us.
She finishes with my back, then adjusts the warm blanket covering me to keep the now loosened muscles along my spine nice and cozy, and reveal my leg up to my hip. Then she pats my glute.
“There’s a bit of new dimpling here.” Poke. Prod. “Would you be interested in meeting with one of our technicians for a laser therapy consultation?”
I open my mouth to agree, yes, because the worst thing in the world is cellulite on my ass. Won’t someone please think of the Insta stories?
She makes a tsking sound as she continues to examine me, and I can't blame her. The old Shannon would want to know about every imperfection. I would use the credit card that Max pays off every month to fix it, throw money at the problem of not being perfect.
But the last two weeks have taught me that I am so far from perfect it's not even worth trying. And that no matter how hard I try, I will never actually be perfect because my husband keeps moving the goal posts.
When everything else is stripped away, the only thing he values me for is my commodification as a sexy body.
By leaning into being as beautiful as I can be, I have reinforced that value to him, and I'm done with that.
I mumble some noncommittal answer, and we move on. We talk about other things that I barely hear over the panic surging inside me, the swell of emotion as I realize that this isn't what I want anymore.
I have spent eight years trying to be enough and never managing to get there. But in an urgent, chaotic, intense, moonlit hour, Russ showed me what I’ve been missing. Through the sounds that he made and the quiet, guttural utterances. The way that he reacted to my ass, even with the new bit of cellulite on it.
For the first time in years, I felt wanted in a raw, honest way.
Even as my husband was fucking me through that, it was only Russ that made me feel cherished. And when Max finished, without a thought in the world to my own pleasure, because he never cared about my pleasure, it was Russ who lifted me off, who moved me away. Who curled over me and whispered against my spine, "It's your turn, my queen.”
It’s your turn.
Three simple words I haven’t been able to get out of my head ever since.
It’s my turn.
And when I leave the spa mid-afternoon, the sign on the building next door calls to me. I don’t have an appointment, but I’ve had a week to pick up the phone and make some calls.
I haven’t.
There’s no time like the present to rip off the bandaid and start putting myself first.