…
Alex gently stirred his black coffee, the silver spoon clinking quietly against the ceramic.
He rested his elbows on the small cafe table, his gaze dropping to the battered steel thermos Shania still held in her lap.
“So,” he began, his tone low and unhurried.
“The road from a small Canadian town to Nashville, and then all the way out here to the Coast…
I imagine that wasn’t exactly a smooth ride.”
He offered a faint, inviting smile.
“What makes someone pack up their life and dive into this particular meat grinder?”
Shania didn’t answer right away.
She brought the thermos up to the table, wrapping both hands around the warm steel, her fingertips tracing the dents in the metal as if drawing some quiet strength from it.
She watched the thin curl of steam rising from Alex’s cup, her eyes losing their focus as she drifted back to the northern frost of Ontario.
“A dream?” she echoed softly, looking up to meet his gaze.
“I suppose that’s part of it.
But really, it was about getting out.”
She let out a quiet breath.
“My childhood wasn’t exactly a postcard.
Timmins was freezing, and the cold didn’t stop at the front door.
Things at home were…
heavy.
My parents had their own demons they were fighting, and a lot of that bled into the house.”
Alex watched her face.
Despite the shadows she was talking about, her expression caught the warm, amber light of the cafe.
She didn’t look broken; she looked weathered, in the way only strong people are.
“Music was the only thing that kept me company,” Shania continued, a nostalgic warmth creeping into her voice.
“I used to hide under my blankets with a cheap transistor radio, trying to pull in the country stations from across the border.
Those crackling songs felt like a lifeline.
I’d go out into the snow, doing chores around the property, just singing those melodies over and over until my throat hurt.”
She smiled, a genuine, beautiful expression that reached her eyes.
“Those songs made me realize I didn’t just belong to that bitter little town.
There was a bigger, warmer world out there. The source of this chapter is g.com.
I started singing in local bars before I was even old enough to legally be in them.
Eventually, I met a lawyer who believed in my voice.
He helped me get down to Nashville to cut some real demos.
So now…
I just pour everything I’ve survived into the writing.”
Alex proved to be an excellent listener.
Unlike the loud, performative executives she had been dealing with in Los Angeles, he didn’t interrupt her with exaggerated sympathy or try to top her stories.
He sat in quiet stillness, holding her gaze, letting the space breathe.
“You’re going to make it, Shania,” Alex said, his voice carrying a quiet, absolute certainty.
“Those kinds of scars make for the best records.
I’ll be waiting to hear that first album.”
Shania laughed softly, a flush of color touching her cheeks.
“Deal.
You’ll be the first person I send a pressed copy to.”
She caught herself staring into his icy blue eyes a second too long.
Flustered, she quickly steered the spotlight away from herself, wrapping her hands tighter around her thermos.
“What about you?” she asked, tilting her head.
“How does a British rock singer end up acting in Los Angeles?”
“My script is a little messier,” Alex replied smoothly, leaning back against the leather booth.
He drew easily on the memories of the body’s original host.
“I grew up in Manchester.
My parents were factory workers who got laid off when the mills started shutting down.
When the money dries up, a working-class house turns into a pressure cooker.”
He traced the rim of his coffee cup.
“I was an angry, rebellious kid.
Bleeding my fingers raw on cheap guitar strings, busking outside train stations, getting into fights.
My parents wanted me to take a safe route—drive a delivery truck, carry mail.
But my grades were terrible, and I had zero interest in a quiet life.”
“So you left?”
“Landed in New York, scraped by playing in underground dive bars, and eventually hitched my way out here to the Coast.”
“It’s a brutal town to break into alone,” Shania said, her brow furrowing slightly.
“Someone with your look and talent…
I imagine you had people offering to help, right?”
“A few,” Alex admitted.
“A well-known actress gave me a hand when I was sleeping rough.
We became…
close, for a short time.”
He didn’t hide the reality of his affair with Meg Ryan.
He laid the truth out flatly, devoid of any romantic gloss.
Shania blinked, processing the implication.
In any other context, a young guy openly admitting to sleeping his way through a closed door with an older, established woman might have been a red flag.
But sitting across from Alex, feeling the magnetic pull of his quiet composure and undeniable charm, she found herself glossing over the moral gray area entirely.
She simply nodded, her heart beating a little faster.
“I’m glad you found your footing.”
“I don’t need the handouts anymore,” Alex said quietly.
“I’ve got a good agent now, and I’m earning my place on the call sheets.”
As the evening wore on, the two fell into an easy, comfortable rhythm.
Alex found himself quietly studying her.
Like nearly everyone chasing a name in this town, Shania carried the weight of a rough past.
Yet, compared to the destructive, frantic energy of Angelina Jolie—who burned herself to stay warm—Shania was a completely different breed.
She was like a sunflower, stubborn and unbothered by the dirt she had grown in, always turning her face toward the light.
Alex respected it, mostly because he knew he didn’t share that light.
Beneath his polished, gentlemanly exterior, he still carried a deep, cold cynicism.
He remembered the people who had stepped on him in his past life, the executives who had treated his life as cheap collateral on stunt sets.
He didn’t forgive, and he didn’t turn toward the sun.
He knew how to use the shadows.
He fit into the ruthless machinery of Hollywood perfectly.
When the cafe finally began stacking chairs for the night, Alex paid the bill, walked out into the cool evening air, and gentlemanly escorted the future queen of country music back to the lobby of her hotel.
…
-Krazybro