Chapter Four
Spencer
Dr. Klein gasps when I deliver my last fatal line. The line that stopped me from speaking for several moments.
Even now, thirteen years later, the tears still pool in my eyes when I consider the loss of my first love.
“I’m sorry you had to suffer a significant loss like that at such a vulnerable age,” she murmurs, her words swirling in the weird emptiness in my mind.
Suddenly, the comfort of the chair is gone.
What once felt safe now feels too open—like it’s swallowed me whole and spat me out under a spotlight.
I can’t hide here, can’t even tilt my chin to block her view of my face.
There may be a clinical reason for that, but right now, I don’t care.
I swing my legs off the side, restless, exposed. The need to move overrides everything.
My pulse is thudding in my ears. My head spins.
I stumble toward the window—the furthest place from that damn chair—like distance might give me back some sort of control.
“Are you okay, Spencer?” Dr. Klein asks. I hate people asking questions they already know the answers to. She’s a fucking doctor; shouldn’t she be aware I’m not?
I don’t speak. Standing by the glass, glancing down at the bustling street below, with my back to her, my tension gradually subsides and my chest relaxes.
“Due to our intense love for Chess, our loss was too enormous to bear. Devastation overwhelmed us.”
“I can see that,” she replies, her voice soft. “Did you have support? A parent? Nonna?”
“No. We were at a crossroads in our lives; having graduated boarding school, we lived in Carlo’s luxury penthouse apartment. Its walls oozed wealth and comfort. Yet, we were alone once again and had never been so fragile.”
“That must have been incredibly hard. How old were you at this point?”
“Eighteen. I did everything I could to support my friend; my love for him knew no bounds; I gave him everything I had. But I was young, immature, and didn’t have a clue how to handle our grief.”
A tear slowly crawls down my cheek.
“Carlo leaned into me, never allowing others near him,” I mumble, needing her to understand how hard I tried to make things right for us.
“At first, he seemed to torture himself for allowing Chess to leave Naples. As if it were his fault. Yet gradually over weeks and months we redirected the finger of blame.”
I push my hands into my pockets, the familiar swell of anger in my gut rolling in under a great black cloud and hiding my previous emotional outburst.
“After despising Alonso his entire life, Chess’ death was the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. That alone eliminated any possibility of a future relationship between them. Carlo became bitter and eventually blamed his father entirely for our loss.”
That wretched pen scratched on the paper. I couldn’t see her now, but I could hear the endless notes she was scribbling about me. Notes about Carlo as if he were some sort of science project.
My words got stuck in my throat as the torrent of anger and blackness raged around in my head.
“How did you support Carlo?”
“For a few weeks, I held him night and day, trying to put the pieces of him back together. He barely spoke or ate; simply gripped on to me as if I were his lifeline.”
I rub my hand around my neck, freeing some of the tension that’s built up there.
“Once he’d apportioned the blame to his father, he took his protest to the absolute maximum by not only refusing to speak to his parents but also refusing to touch his trust fund.”
Realizing I haven’t explained this point yet. I forgive her relentless pen, accepting her need for notes, but I still eye the chair with suspicion.
“On Carlo’s eighteenth birthday, his trust fund matured, making him a millionaire several times over. Yet, since we learned of Chess’ death, he never touched a penny.”
I snort through my nose.
“We still lived in his apartment, though,” I smile, hoping to show her the worst of the storm has passed.
Her responding closed-lip smile is warm, bordering on affectionate.
“His father continues to this day to pump millions into an offshore account for him,” I say, shaking my head.
“What Alonso couldn’t seem to comprehend was that money was of no importance to Carlo; he only ever wanted love.”
“Then he was lucky to have found it in you.”
My eyes snap to hers. Her blatant reminder of the intensity of emotion I have for my friend makes my body tingle. I stop to consider her words.
I’ve never doubted that I love him. He’s always been one of the most important people in my life. Surely, it’s normal that I love him, but that doesn’t excuse the way I lust after him when I’m married to my beautiful wife.
Brushing off her remark before I get too lost in her sentiment, I continue.
After refusing his parents’ financial support, Carlo also had to give up his place at university. Instead, he found work at a hotel.
Carlo’s years of neglect enabled him to hide his emotions from others. He became darker, broodier. His once vibrant, playful light extinguished by the immensity of his grief.
To keep his mind busy, he worked hard and quickly formed a strong relationship with one of the original founders of the hotel chain, who took a chance on him, giving him a job when everyone else rejected him.
Within weeks, he’d accepted a position on a fast-track training program for hotel management.
I believe it was this that saved his life.
Within a month of Chess’ death, my parents expected me to start at university. Continuing my education after everything that happened that summer seemed wrong on every level.
Although Carlo encouraged me to do it, it still felt like I was betraying not only my best friend, but also his late girlfriend’s memory.
My first year at uni passed in a relative blur, yet not of the usual drinking and debauchery kind.
Several of our friends from boarding school had enrolled at the same university.
It was a blessing to have their support at first. They were aware about Carlo and my relationship with Chess, but not with each other.
Their partial awareness of the situation allowed them to empathize with my cocktail of emotions.
They tried to support Carlo and me in the first few months. All our friends remained worried about us, but they were eighteen; gradually their minds drifted to partying and having fun.
On rare occasions, the boys persuaded us to join them for a drink in the evening after work.
A year later, neither Carlo nor I had considered intimacy with another girl. We didn’t miss it; we had each other.
Being alone in our own space, without the judgment of others, allowed our relationship to blossom.
We regularly reminisced about our time in Naples. It was a strange mixture of pain and comfort to relive moments we’d shared there.
Seeing Carlo trying to rebuild himself after such a significant loss was hard. The strengthening connection our shared grief generated, made it feel natural to want to show him my love.
His adoration surrounded me in every loving glance or whispered cherished word, and in the now familiar soft mold of his lips on mine. But when he asked me to take our relationship to the next level—make love to him—giving him such intense pleasure quickly became my drug.
I threw myself into it—into him.
Every touch, every moan, every shiver beneath my hands felt like proof that I could be enough. That I could give him something no one else had.
It wasn’t just about sex. It was about being wanted, being trusted, being chosen.
And the more he gave, the more I craved. His pleasure became my purpose.
Maybe that’s where I started to lose myself—when loving him became the only thing that made me feel whole.
Carlo spent his entire life working; when he wasn’t at the hotel, he was asleep.
By the following summer, gradually life continued. We couldn’t go to Naples that year as we usually would because Carlo was working.
One of Nonna’s farmworkers called us in May to explain that she was ill. We were aware from our previous letter with Nonna that Alonso had employed someone to manage the lemon grove, so the news didn’t come as a shock.
After this phone call, we both wrote to her but didn’t get a response. We planned to visit her for a weekend as soon as my exams finished.
Yet, when Nonna died only ten months after losing Chess, no matter how expected, her passing was another enormous blow.
Though, from it, came an understanding of our grief that we’d previously lacked.
Carlo, point-blank refused to attend her funeral, aware his parents would be there. To show my support for Carlo and respect for Nonna, I flew to Naples to attend on his behalf.
If we hadn’t been so lost in our grief, perhaps we would have guessed that Nonna would have the last word.
But in a move that surprised us all, she bequeathed her entire estate to Carlo and me jointly.
Her action instantly made us both millionaires.
It was a relief to be financially independent of our parents. And a fabulous fuck-you to all of them.
Though it was her last words written in a private note to both of us that changed our perspective on grief.
I take my copy of her well-read letter from my pocket.
“Would you like me to read it to you?” I turn and ask Dr. Kline.
“If you’re comfortable sharing it, yes please.” Her head bobs in gentle encouragement.
I take a second to compose myself, and then start reading.
My dearest boys,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve finally taken my leave. Ninety-three years is a long time to carry a heart full of stories, and I want my last words to find you not in sorrow, but in strength.