Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
FLETCH
T he air in the ranch house feels different.
Like grief soaked into the drywall and now we’re all breathing it in.
Reese is still in the hospital. The doctors say she’s stable, that she’s healing—but Thorin hasn’t left her side in three days. If he’s not sleeping in that awful vinyl hospital chair, he’s pacing the hall like a caged animal, snapping at anyone who comes within six feet of him. Even Carson.
Especially Alex.
We’re in the living room now, and it’s a powder keg waiting for a spark.
“You want me to what?” Thorin growls, dragging both hands through his hair. His eyes are bloodshot and raw, his shirt wrinkled from sleeping in it—if he slept at all. “Leave Reese and fly out with the band like it’s business as usual?”
Alex doesn’t flinch, which is impressive considering Thorin looks ready to launch across the kitchen island and rip his throat out. “We’ve already pushed the tour once. The first leg starts in less than two weeks. Madison Square Garden is sold out. You miss that show, and we’re on the hook for more than just PR fallout.”
“You think I give a fuck about PR?” Thorin slams his fist against the counter. The coffee mug beside him rattles but doesn’t shatter. A miracle. “You think I care about press releases and ticket sales while my wife’s recovering from nearly bleeding out in my arms?”
“She’s stable now,” Alex says carefully. “I’m not saying it’s fair. But the label’s not going to reschedule again. We miss this window, the rest of the tour’s done. Europe’s off the table. And you know what that means for the new album.”
Benji moves to stand between them. Carson hangs back with his arms crossed, jaw clenched. No one wants to say it, but we’re all thinking it.
This band is hanging by a thread.
“We can delay your departure a couple days,” Alex continues, softening. “Let the rest of the guys fly out ahead, get setup started. You join us before New York. But we have to move.”
“I’m not leaving her.” Thorin’s voice cracks. Just barely. But it’s there, and it shreds something in my chest.
“I’ll stay,” I say suddenly.
Everyone turns.
Thorin’s eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“I’ll stay here. With her. With Eli. Until you’re back. Maggie and Walker can only do so much, and she’s gonna need someone when she comes home. You said it yourself—Reese wouldn’t want Eli bouncing around while she’s recovering. I’ll hold it down.”
Thorin stares at me like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Benji nods slowly. “We’ll cover the shows until you’re ready.”
Carson finally speaks, voice low. “You need us to hold the line, we’ll do it.”
Alex exhales hard. “Fine. I’ll call the label, adjust the press schedule. But you join us in New York. No later than Madison Square Garden. Or it all burns.”
Thorin doesn’t answer right away.
But then he just nods once and walks out of the room.
Like he’s holding everything inside by a thread, and that thread’s fraying fast.
I follow him with my eyes until he’s gone.
Because this is what family looks like.
Messy. Scorched. Holding on with bloody hands when the world tries to tear you apart.
And I’d do it again tomorrow.
No question.
I’d stay for her. For Eli. For Thorin.
But the second it leaves my mouth, Thorin’s head snaps back around like I’ve slapped him.
“No.”
It lands like a gunshot.
I blink. “What?”
“No,” he says again, harder now, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. “You’re not staying. No one is staying.”
“Thorin,” I start carefully, “Reese?—”
“I said no.” His voice is hoarse, low and vibrating with something dangerous. “I appreciate the offer, man, I do, but I don’t need babysitters. Or charity.”
“It’s not charity?—”
“She’s my wife,” he snarls. “My family. My responsibility. Not yours. Not theirs.” He jerks his chin toward Benji and Carson, who are frozen behind him, watching like they’re afraid to breathe.
Maggie steps forward, calm and firm, hands pressed together like she’s holding the weight of the room in her palms. “Thorin, sweetheart, this isn’t about ego. This is about Reese. And Eli. You’re hanging on by a thread?—”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” she says gently. “None of us are. You’re grieving and gutted and trying to keep everything from falling apart with nothing but your bare hands. Let us help.”
He turns on her so fast I push off the counter.
“Don’t,” I warn.
But he doesn’t lash out.
He just looks at her.
And the fury flickers.
What’s left in its place is worse.
A hollow, gutted man barely held together by a hoodie and grief and guilt so deep it’s drowning him alive.
“I have to go,” he whispers. “Because if I stay, I’ll break. And if I break, she’ll never forgive herself for being the reason.”
The room goes still.
Nobody breathes.
Not even the walls.
Then he turns to me again, and this time, it’s not anger. It’s something colder. Final.
“I said no, Fletch. You’re going. All of you are going.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply.
He walks out the kitchen like the floor’s burning beneath him.
The screen door slams behind him a second later.
Benji curses and follows, his boots thudding like warning drums. “I’m not letting him do this alone.”
Carson’s right behind him. “We’re on his heels.”
And then I’m alone with Maggie.
The silence hits harder than anything else.
And all I can think is?—
This is a man unraveling in real time, and no one can stop him.
* * *
The kitchen is quiet now.
Too quiet. I don’t know where Alex disappeared to, and Thorin, Benji and Carson haven’t come back yet.
The kind of silence that feels like a bruise—deep and spreading.
Benji and Carson went to walk it off. Alex is probably in the barn pretending not to panic-text the label. Thorin disappeared out the back door like he was about to combust and needed the cold air to stop him from going nuclear.
I’m still standing at the island, staring at the crack in the granite where Thorin’s fist landed.
“He’s not okay,” I mutter.
“I know,” comes the soft reply behind me.
I turn, and there she is.
Maggie.
Still in her house shoes, cardigan slung over her shoulders, hair pulled back into a low knot like it’s the only thing she can control right now. She looks tired. Like all of us. But beneath it—steel.
Maggie has always had that quiet strength that doesn’t shout to be noticed. She just… shows up. Anchors everyone else while the storm rages.
She crosses the room, her hands cradling a warm mug. “Sit, sweetheart. You’re vibrating like one of those damn baby bouncers.”
I obey. Mostly because she mom-voiced me. Partly because my knees actually feel a little weak from watching Thorin unravel.
She sets the mug in front of me—tea, of course. Not that I’ll drink it. But it’s the gesture.
“I’ll stay,” she says gently. “For as long as it takes. I’ll handle Eli. And the twins.”
I blink at her. “Maggie?—”
“No arguments.” She gives me that look. The one that could stop a bull mid-charge. “Walker’s already on board. That man needs something to do besides pacing and fixing things that aren’t broken. He loves those babies. And Eli loves him. And he listens to me.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not just about logistics. It’s Thorin. He’s… I don’t think he knows how to leave her right now. I don’t think he knows how to be anything but furious.”
She nods. “That boy’s heart is cracked wide open. He’s holding all that grief in his fists because he doesn’t know where else to put it.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “Do you really think he’ll be ready to perform in two weeks? In New York? At Madison Square Garden, of all places?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
She moves to the window, stares out at the fading evening, the hills soaked in gold and sorrow.
Then she turns back to me, eyes full and clear. “I don’t know if he’ll be ready,” she admits. “But I know he’ll go. Because that’s what we do when it hurts. We show up. We sing through the breaks in our voices. We play through the pain. We survive the set even when our soul’s still bleeding.”
I stare at her, throat tight.
“I just don’t want him to come back from tour and be even more broken.”
Maggie walks over, sets her hand over mine.
“Then you be his anchor out there, Fletcher Malone,” she says. “You hold the line when he can’t. And when it’s too much, you remind him he’s not alone.”
I nod.
Because what else can I do?
The tour starts in two weeks.
And I have no idea how we’re going to get through it.
I’m still staring at the door Thorin stormed through, jaw tight, breath shallow, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
But it’s not a message.
It’s instinct.
I need to hear her voice.
Before I fall apart too.
I pull out my phone and hit Mya without thinking. She answers on the second ring, her voice soft and low, laced with hospital quiet and emotional exhaustion.
“Hey,” she whispers. “I’m still in her room. She’s sleeping again.”
I close my eyes and exhale, pressing the heel of my hand to the counter like I need something to hold me up. “How’s she doing?”
“She cried herself back to sleep,” Mya murmurs. “It’s been like that all morning. She wakes up and remembers, and it hits her all over again.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Silence. Heavy. Weighted. But it’s the kind that only exists between two people who don’t need to fill it with noise.
I finally speak. “Thorin’s not letting me stay.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “What happened?”
“Alex came to finalize the tour schedule. He told Thorin the label won’t move the start date again. MSG’s locked. First leg launches in two weeks.” I rub a hand over my face. “He offered to send the rest of us ahead and let Thorin join us late, but…”
“But he refused.”
“More like imploded.” My voice goes hollow. “Said it’s his mess to carry. Told me I’m not staying. Told Maggie no. Walked out like the walls were closing in.”
Mya sighs softly, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, head tipped back against one of those stiff vinyl hospital chairs. “He’s trying to outrun it.”
“Yeah. But it’s gonna catch him.”
“I know,” she says. “And when it does… he’s gonna need you more than he realizes.”
My throat tightens.
“You okay?” she asks gently.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I will be. Once you’re home.”
“I wish I could be with you.”
“You are.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I hear the catch in her breath.
“Hey,” I say, voice rough now. “We’ll get through this.”
“Even if it feels like we’re all splintering?”
“Especially then.”
A nurse walks into Reese’s room—I hear the soft knock, the shuffle of movement. Mya murmurs something to her, then comes back on the line.
“I have to go,” she says. “They’re running new labs.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Fletcher.”
It knocks the breath from my lungs every time she says it.
“I love you too, Mya.”
When the call ends, the kitchen is still quiet.
But I don’t feel alone anymore.
I find Thorin in the barn, pacing like a caged animal, eyes bloodshot and jaw clenched so tight it looks carved from stone. Benji’s perched on an overturned bucket, fiddling with a piece of hay between his fingers, while Carson leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching Thorin like he might spontaneously combust.
I step inside, boots echoing against the concrete floor. The cold hits me first—then the weight of everything else. The grief. The guilt. The pressure. It’s thick in the air, swirling like smoke with no open window to escape through.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
Thorin doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance my way.
Benji nods, Carson lifts his chin, and I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, trying to find the right words that won’t set him off.
“I’ve been thinking,” I start, stepping closer. “Trying to come up with something that’ll work.”
Thorin scoffs—loud and bitter. “Unless that something involves canceling the tour, I’m not interested.”
My gut twists, but I push forward. “We can’t cancel, Thor. We already did once. Alex said the venues won’t give us a third chance. And this one… it’s Madison Square Garden. That’s not just another show, it’s the kind of milestone bands spend their lives chasing.”
His head jerks toward me. “You think I give a fuck about a milestone right now?”
“No. I think you care about Reese. And I think if you throw away this tour, she’ll blame herself for it.”
That lands. I see it in the way his chest rises, then stills. Like I pulled the emergency brake on a runaway train.
“We have three shows in New York,” I continue, voice low. “Then we get a week off. After that, three shows on the East Coast—another week break. Then the Southern run. You fly home on the breaks. Maggie and Walker will be here, and Mya too. You won’t miss a thing with Eli or Reese. And she’ll know you’re still fighting for everything you built.”
Silence. Deafening, loaded silence.
“I don’t want to leave her.” His voice cracks like splitting timber, quiet but gutting.
“You won’t. Not really.” I step in, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be gone for a few days at a time, but you’ll be back. She needs you steady, not shattered.”
Carson clears his throat. “We’re with you, man. We’ll make it work.”
Benji tosses the hay down, eyes locking on Thorin’s. “We’re not doing this tour without you. But we’re also not watching you fall apart.”
Thorin finally stops pacing. His shoulders sag, weight of the world pressing down. He nods once. Just once. But it’s enough to mean I hear you. I’ll try.
It’s not perfect. But maybe it doesn’t have to be.
We meet Alex in the den of the main house.
No instruments. No distractions. Just four guys in various stages of burnout, and Alex, pacing with his iPad like he’s preparing to defend a murder suspect instead of organizing a rock tour.
Thorin sits across from me on the leather couch, elbows on his knees, gaze steady but wrecked. Benji’s beside him, arms folded, while Carson sprawls on the floor, legs out, back against the wall, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week.
Alex stops pacing. “So let me make sure I’ve got this straight.”
Here we go.
“Three shows in New York—MSG, Barclays, and Beacon—then you fly home, Thorin. You’ll be off for six days. We pick up again with Philly, Boston, and Baltimore. Another break. Then you rejoin for the Southern run—Atlanta, Nashville, and New Orleans.”
“Correct,” I say, sitting forward. “We keep the full band intact for every show, but give Thorin time home between the legs. He’s not missing any major venue. We lose zero dates.”
Alex frowns, fingers tapping against the screen. “That’s going to mean a lot of back-and-forth flying. And press rescheduling.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But we’ve done worse.”
Carson grunts in agreement. “Remember Mexico?”
Benji shudders. “Don’t bring up Mexico.”
Alex sighs through his nose, but his tone softens. “This plan’s… actually solid. Tour’s intact. Thorin gets to be with Reese. The breaks were already built in—we just didn’t know we’d need them like this.”
I glance over at Thorin. “It’s not perfect.”
“No,” he rasps. “But it’s something.”
Benji leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We’ll handle setup and sound checks when he’s not there. We’ve got his back.”
Carson smirks. “I’ll even do the interviews if I have to.”
“You? Media?” Alex raises an eyebrow.
“I’m charming as hell under pressure.”
Thorin lets out something that’s almost a laugh. Just a little cracked around the edges.
Alex finally nods. “Okay. I’ll inform the label. We’ll prep backup for the shows in case of emergency, but as of now—tour’s on. We move forward with this plan.”
Relief ripples through the room. It’s muted—still weighed down by everything that came before—but it’s there. Like the moment you realize the worst part of the storm has passed, even if the sky’s still gray.
I lean back, exhaling for what feels like the first time in hours.
We’re still in the fight.