Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
FLETCH
Madison Square Garden
T he walls breathe here.
That’s the only way I can describe it. Madison Square Garden doesn’t feel like a building—it feels like a memory stitched into history. Like it’s inhaling every heartbeat we’ve ever given to this band and exhaling it back at us tenfold.
Benji’s fidgeting like he might combust. Carson’s got that glassy-eyed look he gets when his brain is moving faster than his fingers can keep up. And Thorin—he’s not even blinking. Just staring straight ahead, jaw tight, chest barely moving.
He’s in soldier mode. Locked in. And that scares the shit out of me.
Alex’s phone is glued to his hand. He sent out the press release hours ago—the one about the family situation, about Reese, about grief with no clean edges. He asked for space, kindness, understanding. Not because we wanted to share, but because we had to. Because Thorin couldn’t carry the weight alone anymore.
The fans know now.
And they showed up anyway.
We take the stage, and it hits like a punch to the sternum. The lights blind. The noise deafens. And the Garden erupts like it’s been waiting for us all its life.
We open with Sanctuary.
Thorin steps to the mic like a man walking into battle. His fingers tighten on the stand. The first verse comes out low, reverent. He’s not just singing—he’s remembering. Every lyric, a thread yanked from a place he’s not ready to go.
By the bridge, his voice catches.
A sharp breath. A heartbeat too long.
Silence.
For half a second, the air tightens.
Then someone shouts, “You can do it, Thorin!”
And it spreads.
“We love you!”
“You’ve got this!”
The whole damn crowd is with him now, screaming over the silence like they can carry him through it. Thousands of strangers holding him up without touching a single thing. It’s not a pity chant. It’s a rally cry.
Thorin lifts his head, eyes glossy under the lights.
And he keeps going.
The note is broken. Cracked wide open. But he finishes the song. Every last word. And when he steps back, his hands are shaking, chest heaving like he ran through fire to get there.
Benji and Carson flank him, no hesitation. They don’t even look at each other, just move as one—instinct, not strategy. I keep the rhythm like it’s the only thing holding any of us together, every beat a promise: We’ve got you. We’re not letting go.
We finish the set to a roar that rattles the steel bones of the arena.
Backstage, no one speaks.
Not at first.
Thorin sits on the floor, back against a black road case, like he physically can’t go another step. His head drops into his hands, and everything he held back on stage comes crashing down in the quiet.
Carson crouches in front of him. Benji’s hand settles on his shoulder, thumb brushing slow circles like he’s grounding lightning.
I drop beside them, legs stretched out, palms braced on the floor like I can steady the world from the ground up.
No one says you were amazing. No one says you killed it or I’m proud of you or we’ll get through this.
We don’t have to.
Sometimes grief doesn’t want words.
It wants witnesses.
And tonight?
We’re not walking away from each other. We’re staying in the fire. Shoulder to shoulder. Hands to hearts.
Because the only way out of this is through it.
And we’re not going alone.
But once the stage fades and the gear’s packed, once the lights die down and the crew scatters, we’re left with the weight again.
Only now it’s heavier.
Back at the hotel, the band moves like a storm that’s lost its thunder. No one’s talking loud. Carson hasn’t touched the minibar. Benji passed on a post-show beer for the first time since we started touring. And Thorin?
Thorin’s sitting on the edge of the bed in our suite, still in his stage clothes, scrolling through his phone like the screen’s got answers it hasn’t figured out how to give him yet.
I peel off my hoodie, toss it over the back of a chair, and flop down onto the couch. My bones ache in that good, earned way—but my chest?
That’s a whole different ache.
Alex left his laptop open on the desk, Twitter up like a ticker tape parade of raw emotion. The hashtag’s already trending. #ThorinStrong. #EighteendustMSG. #SanctuaryLive.
“Madison Square Garden got a front-row seat to heartbreak tonight. Thorin Decker—we see you, man. We hear you.”
“Cried through the entire second verse. He almost broke. And then WE lifted him. That’s what live music is. That’s what this band is.”
“I didn’t know the story. Just felt the pain. And I will never forget tonight.”
“Let artists grieve. Let men cry. Let the music carry what words can’t.”
“Reese, if you’re reading this—we love you. We love him. This was sacred.”
I swallow hard.
Thorin lets out a breath like it’s the first real one he’s taken all night. “I didn’t think I was gonna make it through that song.”
“You didn’t have to.” I nod toward the screen. “They made it with you.”
He doesn’t respond. Just rubs his hands over his face and then drops them, fingers loose, eyes tired. “I didn’t even feel the crowd at first. Like I was underwater. But when they started shouting…” His voice breaks again, softer this time. “It felt like someone turned the oxygen back on.”
We sit there for a beat. Let it land.
The door clicks open behind me, and Benji wanders in with a box of pizza, looking like he hasn’t blinked since load-out.
“I brought carbs,” he says, setting it down like it’s holy.
Carson follows with a six-pack tucked under one arm and a bottle of ginger ale under the other. “Didn’t know what the vibe was.”
I glance around the room. “Kinda feels like church.”
Thorin chuckles under his breath. “Grief and communion?”
“Pretty much.” I crack open a Coke and sink deeper into the couch. “Minus the wine and wafers.”
We eat like men who haven’t in days. No plates. No table. Just hunched over the coffee table, greasy fingers and quiet chewing. Every once in a while someone reads a tweet out loud, and we don’t laugh—we just sit with it.
Because the fans didn’t just watch tonight. They held it. They carried it with us. With Thorin.
And for once, it didn’t feel like we were on one side of the barricade and they were on the other.
We were all just people trying to survive a song.
Eventually, Thorin gets up, phone still in his hand. He disappears into the bedroom without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.
Benji stretches out on the floor, arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it’s gonna offer up a revelation.
Carson flicks through the channels on mute, stopping on a rerun of Top Gear without caring what’s playing.
And me?
I scroll. I read every damn post. Every unfiltered sentence from strangers who weren’t strangers tonight. Who screamed through the silence. Who reminded us that sometimes the loudest love is the kind that doesn’t need to ask for permission.
It’s past two in the morning when I finally drag myself into the bedroom I’m sharing with Carson.
But before I close the door, I check my phone one last time.
There’s a message at the top of the screen.
From Mya.
He did good, Fletch. He made it through. Tell him we’re proud of him. I love you.
I stare at the screen for a long moment.
Then I text her back.
We all made it through. And I love you, too.
Because that’s the thing no one tells you about grief.
And we’re not going alone.
The words echo in my head as I step out of the steam-filled bathroom and into the cool hush of my hotel room, towel slung low on my hips, heart still racing like I never left the stage. Madison Square Garden—goddamn. We did it. We bled for it. Thorin nearly broke during it. And still, we did it.
I drop onto the edge of the bed and grab my phone like it’s my lifeline. Because it is. Because she is.
Mya.
One ring. Two.
“Hey,” she answers softly, the sound of her voice like warm sugar and safety, like the after of a storm.
“Hey, baby.” My voice comes out rough. A little wrecked. “You still awake?”
“I never sleep on show nights. You know that.” There’s a smile tucked between her words, and God, I miss her. Like physically ache miss her.
“How’s Reese?” I ask, even though I know Thorin’s probably still on the phone with her right now, whispering the same apologies he’ll never stop carrying. “Is she… okay?”
“She’s hanging in. They both are.” There’s a pause, soft and full of things she’s not saying. “And the twins are finally asleep—finally—so don’t you dare wake them with that gravel-voiced rocker growl of yours.”
I huff a laugh. “Noted.”
I lean back against the headboard, close my eyes, and let the silence stretch between us like the space it’s always trying to fill. She doesn’t rush me. She never does.
“So,” she says gently, “how was it? Really?”
My throat tightens. “It was everything. Loud and electric and terrifying. MSG is like… standing in the belly of a legend and trying not to fuck it up.”
“Oh, babe.”
I swallow. “We opened with Sanctuary—Thorin’s song. The one he wrote for Reese years ago.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well… he cracked.” My voice lowers, quieter now. “Bridge hit, and he just… couldn’t. Like his whole chest caved in. Benji and Carson jumped in, carried the bridge, but he looked like he was bleeding right there on the mic.”
“Oh no.” Her breath catches. “Fletch…”
“But the crowd…” My voice breaks on a half-laugh, half-sob. “They didn’t let him fall. They started chanting—You can do it, Thorin and We love you!—and it was like… fuck, Mya. You’d have thought the Garden grew lungs and loved him back.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers, and I can hear the tears in her throat. “That’s… beautiful.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it was.” I rub my palm over my face. “I think it wrecked him in the best and worst way.”
There’s a pause, then: “Your socials are blowing up, by the way.”
I blink. “Ours?”
“Yours, the band’s, the venue’s. You’re trending on TikTok for Thorin’s Moment and MSG Cry Heard ‘Round the World.” She snorts softly. “Also someone edited a clip with slow-mo confetti and Hozier in the background. I cried. Twice.”
“Of course you did.” I grin, but my chest is full again. Of her, of this, of all the shit that feels too big to say across a phone line.
“I wish you were here,” I murmur. “Wish I could come home after this and crawl into bed with you and the boys.”
Her voice dips to something just above a whisper. “We’re always waiting. Just… come back in one piece.”
“I will.” And I mean it. With everything I’ve got.
Because this band is my lifeblood.
But she—they—they’re my heartbeat.
* * *
I wake to the sound of silence.
No fans. No reverb. No Alex barking out orders or Carson yelling for coffee or Benji practicing riffs on whatever poor surface he can bang his knuckles against.
Just the heavy quiet that comes after the storm.
The curtain’s half drawn, sunlight slicing across the floor in a soft gold spill. My neck’s got a crick in it from sleeping on the couch, but I don’t move right away. Just breathe in the stillness. Let it settle. Let myself feel the weight of last night—because we fucking did it. We played the Garden. We cracked open everything and bled through a mic stand and walked off stage with thunder in our wake.
But not untouched.
Never untouched.
There’s movement in the kitchen. A kettle clinks, then clicks. Soft footsteps on tile.
I sit up, rub the back of my neck, and stretch until my spine protests.
Thorin’s already dressed. Barefoot, in jeans and a black hoodie, hair a mess, face pale. He looks like a ghost someone half-invited back into the world.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, pouring hot water into two mugs. His voice is rough. Grated and dry.
“Didn’t,” I mumble, pushing off the couch. “Just needed a minute to remember I’m not still on stage.”
Thorin doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. Just hands me a mug and stares out the window, eyes fixed on the gray morning hovering over Manhattan.
We stand like that for a while. Drinking in silence. Breathing in the things we still haven’t said.
And then, quiet as a confession:
“I almost didn’t go out there last night.”
I glance at him, but he doesn’t look at me.
“I was in the greenroom, and all I could think was… I can’t. I can’t sing her song like she’s still here.”
His hand tightens around the mug. Not hard, not dramatic. Just… grief in motion.
“She is,” I say softly. “Just not in the way she used to be.”
Thorin lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob pressed flat.
“When I wrote Sanctuary, I thought I understood what love was. Thought I’d already lived the worst day of my life. I didn’t know it could get worse.”
The words hang there.
Quiet.
Devastating.
Like something sacred pressed between two breaths.
I don’t rush to respond. Let him say it. Let it live in the space between us, where it belongs.
Because I get it.
I get it more than I want to.
So I set my coffee down beside his, the ceramic clink barely loud enough to matter, and turn to face him fully.
“I know what that feels like.”
His head lifts slightly, not all the way—just enough for his eyes to find mine.
“When Mya went into that coma… when the twins came early, and I was standing in that hospital with blood on my shoes and two babies fighting for every breath?” I pause, swallowing the knot clawing its way up my throat. “I thought that was the worst day of my life.”
Thorin doesn’t move. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes, the slight tilt of his shoulders. He’s listening now. Really listening.
“I remember sitting beside Mya’s hospital bed,” I say, voice low and steady like if I speak too loud, the memory might crack open again. “And thinking, this is it. This is the moment everything unravels. I’m gonna have to live in a world without her. Without them. And I swear to God, T, I couldn’t imagine how.”
A sharp breath escapes me, laced with the kind of truth you don’t say out loud unless it’s too heavy to carry alone.
“I couldn’t imagine going on without them. Still can’t. I know I would have. I would’ve survived. But I wouldn’t have lived. Not really.”
Thorin’s eyes are glassy now. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stands there like he’s caught between past and present, like if he moves, the whole thing might shatter.
“I get it,” I whisper. “Thinking you knew pain. Thinking you knew love. Then life throws you off a cliff and dares you to crawl back up.”
He swipes at his face with the heel of his palm, hard and fast, like he’s mad at himself for cracking open in front of me.
“I don’t want to do this without her,” he mutters. “I don’t want to write songs about her like she’s some ghost in the melody.”
“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “You don’t have to make sense of it yet. Just breathe. Just keep going. And when you can’t? We will. We’ll keep going for you.”
His throat works around a silent thank you. And for once, he doesn’t try to be strong. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. He just stands there in the truth of it.
But he finally looks at me, and that’s when I see it—the break. The raw undercurrent behind the soldier mask. His eyes are red. Not from sleep. Not from weed. Just worn out from carrying too much.
“The crowd…” he says, voice cracking again. “They didn’t know the whole story. They just knew something was breaking. And they tried to hold it.”
I swallow hard. “They did.”
“They fucking held me, man. Like thousands of strangers saying, ‘You’re not alone.’ I didn’t know that could happen.”
I set my mug down and rub a hand over my face, throat burning. “You weren’t alone, T. You never are. We were right there with you. Every note.”
He nods once, jaw tight. “I know.”
Then he surprises me—sets down his coffee and steps forward, pulling me into a hug. No warning. No bravado. Just arms around me like he finally stopped trying to outrun it.
“I miss her,” he says into my shoulder. “So much I think it might kill me.”
“I know, brother.”
And I do. In every single beat.
We stand there, two grown men in a quiet suite in the city that never sleeps, holding the pieces that music couldn’t quite fix last night.
But maybe, just maybe, it was enough to carry us through this morning.