Chapter 7
Greg
There is a specific kind of silence that exists only in the early morning, before the world decides to wake up and start demanding things. In the Ice Box, that silence used to be my favorite thing. It was cold, sterile, and mine.
Now, the silence was different.
It was filled with the scent of vanilla shampoo and the soft, rhythmic sound of a silver spoon clinking against a ceramic bowl.
I stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. I was efficient. Pan hot, butter melted, eggs whisked. But my attention wasn't on the protein.
It was on the girl sitting at the kitchen table.
Michelle was wearing one of my t-shirts. It was a faded black Blackwood Hockey shirt that hit her mid-thigh. She wasn't wearing pants. Just thick, grey wool socks that bunched around her ankles. Her hair was a disaster of platinum waves, piled on top of her head in a messy knot that defied physics.
She was eating Lucky Charms.
She carefully extracted the marshmallows, lining them up on the edge of the bowl like a sugary army, saving them for last.
It was the most inefficient way to eat breakfast I had ever seen. It drove me crazy.
I loved it.
The thought hit me with the force of a slapshot to the chest, winding me. I loved it.
Not her. I didn't love her. That would be insane.
That would be a career-ending, contract-violating, life-ruining disaster.
I just loved... the routine. The bubble we had created in the week since the library.
Since the shower. Since the night she cried into my chest and I realized that under the designer armor, she was just as lonely as I was.
I plated the eggs—six for me, two for her (because I knew she’d steal them if I didn't give her some)—and walked to the table.
"Eat," I ordered, sliding the plate in front of her.
She looked up, blue eyes bright and mischievous. "I am eating. I'm strategizing. The marshmallows are the prize, Greg. You can't just eat the prize first. You have to earn it by wading through the grain-chaff."
"It's processed sugar, not a military campaign," I said, sitting down opposite her.
"Everything is a campaign," she countered, stealing a forkful of my eggs before she even touched hers. "Mmm. You used the good butter."
"I always use the good butter."
"Bougie," she teased. "For a guy who lives like a monk, you have expensive taste in dairy."
"Quality fuel yields quality performance," I recited.
"You sound like a car manual." She kicked me under the table. Her sock-clad foot rested on my shin. She didn't pull it back.
I didn't move my leg. I let her stay there. The warmth of her foot seeped through my jeans, a grounding point in the chaotic map of my morning.
"What's on the docket for today, Captain?" she asked, finally eating an egg. "More studying? I think I've memorized the entire glossary of financial terms. I dream in Excel now. It's tragic."
"No studying," I said. "It's Saturday. And we need supplies."
"Supplies?" She perked up. "Like... shopping?"
"Not your kind of shopping. I have to go to Portland. My skate blades are shot. I need to see the guy at the pro shop. And Beef broke the coffee maker, so we need a new one."
"Portland," she mused. "That's an hour away."
"Ninety minutes with snow."
"Road trip," she declared, slamming her spoon down. "I'm coming."
"No," I said automatically. "It's a boring errand run. You'd hate it. It involves hardware stores and hockey equipment."
"I love hardware stores," she lied. "They smell like sawdust and masculinity. Plus, there's a fabric wholesaler in Portland I've been dying to check out. I need silk for my final project."
She gave me the look. The one where she widened her eyes and pouted her lip just slightly. The 'Brat' look.
"Please, Greg?" she wheedled. "If you leave me here alone, I'll get bored. And when I get bored, I get creative. Remember the glitter incident?"
I winced. I was still finding glitter in the grout of the bathroom tile.
"Fine," I sighed, knowing I had lost this argument ten minutes ago. "But my truck. My rules."
"Deal." She saluted me with a spoon. "I'll be ready in ten. Or twenty. Depends on my hair."
"Ten," I commanded.
"Thirty," she countered, grabbing her bowl of marshmallows and bolting for the stairs.
I watched her go, the curve of her legs flashing under the hem of my shirt.
I groaned, dropping my head into my hands.
Ninety minutes in a confined space with Michelle Vane.
I was going to need a lot more coffee.
My truck was a beast. A black Ford F-250 that I had restored myself. It was lifted, loud, and smelled of leather and diesel. It was not designed for luxury. It was designed to pull stumps out of the ground.
Michelle looked ridiculous in it.
She climbed into the passenger seat wearing a cream-colored shearling coat that probably cost more than the truck's transmission, oversized sunglasses, and boots that were definitely not made for snow.
She looked like a snow queen who had decided to slum it with the peasants.
"This seat warmer is aggressive," she noted, wiggling around. "It's like sitting on a toaster."
"Complaining already?" I put the truck in gear and backed out of the driveway. "We haven't even left the zip code."
"I'm not complaining. I'm critiquing. There's a difference." She reached for the radio dial.
I slapped her hand away. "Driver picks the music."
"Rule number 47?"
"Rule number one. I'm the Captain. My vehicle, my tunes."
"And what does the Captain listen to?"
"Country," I said. "Old country. Johnny Cash. Waylon Jennings."
"Oh God," she groaned, sinking back into the seat. "Music to drink whiskey and cry to."
"Music about real life," I corrected.
I put on a playlist. The low strum of a guitar filled the cab.
We drove south along the coast. The road was winding, flanked by walls of snow and dark pine trees. To the left, the Atlantic Ocean churned, grey and violent against the cliffs.
For the first twenty minutes, we bickered. It was our language now. She made fun of my sunglasses (Aviators, classic). I made fun of her purse (it was tiny and held nothing).
But then, as the scenery opened up, the silence settled. It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers. It was the companionable silence of two people who occupied the same orbit.
"Why defense?" she asked suddenly, looking out the window at the ocean.
"What?"
"Why do you play defense? You're fast enough to be a forward. I looked up your stats. You used to play center in high school."
I glanced at her. She had looked up my stats?
"Defense is about control," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "A forward is chaos. They chase the puck. They rely on bursts of speed and luck. A defenseman sees the whole ice. I control the flow. I decide where the play goes. If I do my job right, the goalie never has to move."
She turned her head, studying my profile. I could feel her gaze like a physical touch on my cheek.
"You like being the wall," she said softly. "The thing that stops the bad stuff from getting through."
"Somebody has to be the wall," I said. "Most people want to be the hero who scores the goal. But the goal doesn't matter if you let the other team put three past you."
"Is that why you act like... this?" She gestured to my general being.
"Like what?"
"Like you're carrying the weight of the roof on your shoulders. Like if you relax for one second, the whole building comes down."
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. She saw too much. She always saw too much.
"It's safer that way," I admitted. "If I'm holding it up, I know it won't fall. If I trust someone else to hold it..."
"They might let go," she finished.
"Yeah."
"My dad is like that," she said quietly. "But he's not holding up a roof. He's building a fortress. He thinks if he has enough money, enough influence, nothing can hurt him. But he's so busy building the walls he forgot to put a door in. He locked himself inside."
"And he locked you out," I said.
"Yeah." She let out a humorless laugh. "I'm the barbarian at the gate. Banging on the door, trying to get in. But he just pours boiling oil on me."
I reached over. It was instinct. I took her hand—the one resting on the center console. Her fingers were cold. Mine were warm.
I laced our fingers together.
"You're not a barbarian," I said. "You're just loud. You're trying to be heard."
"Is it working?" she whispered, squeezing my hand.
"I hear you," I said. "Loud and clear."
She didn't pull her hand away. I drove the next forty miles with my right hand wrapped around hers, shifting gears awkwardly with my left elbow, refusing to let go.
Portland was busy. A mix of hipsters, fishermen, and tourists brave enough for winter.
Our first stop was the fabric wholesaler.
It was a warehouse district. The building was nondescript, but inside, it was an explosion of color. Bolts of fabric were stacked to the ceiling.
Michelle transformed.
The bratty girl vanished. The insecure student vanished.
She became a professional.
I watched her move through the aisles. She touched everything. She didn't just look; she felt. She rubbed silk between her fingers. She held velvet up to the light. Her face was focused, intense.
I leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, just watching her. She was in her element. She spoke a language of warp and weft and bias that I didn't understand, but I loved hearing her speak it.
She found a bolt of deep, midnight-blue silk.
"This is it," she breathed. "For the final collection. It drapes like water. Greg, feel this."
I walked over. She grabbed my hand and pressed it against the fabric. It was cool, slippery.
"Soft," I said.
"It's not just soft. It's liquid. Imagine this as a bias-cut slip dress. It would move with the body. It would look like..." She trailed off, looking at me. Her cheeks flushed.
"Like what?"
"Like sin," she whispered.
I cleared my throat, shifting my weight. "Are you getting it?"
"I... I don't know. It's expensive. And my allowance doesn't hit until next week."
She looked at the price tag, then dropped the fabric, her shoulders slumping.
"It's fine. I'll find something poly-blend."