Chapter 13
Greg
The silence of an empty house is usually my sanctuary. Tonight, it felt like a tomb.
It had been five days since Michelle left for Italy. Five days of radio silence, save for a few terse texts about "jet lag" and "too much prosecco."
I was sitting in my truck, parked on the bluff overlooking Precipice Bay. The same spot where we had almost… well, where we had started this whole mess.
The engine was off. The windows were cracked, letting in the biting sea air. I had a thermos of coffee in the cup holder and a crumpled letter in my hand.
It wasn't from Michelle. It was from the NHL Central Scouting Bureau. An official invitation to the Draft Combine.
It was the golden ticket. The validation of eighteen years of freezing mornings, missed parties, and broken bones.
I should be celebrating. I should be at the bar with Beef, letting him buy me shots.
Instead, I was staring at the grey horizon, feeling nothing.
My phone buzzed on the dashboard.
Incoming FaceTime: Michelle.
My heart kick-started, thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I grabbed the phone, almost dropping it in my haste.
I swiped answer.
The screen filled with pixelated sunlight. Bright, aggressive Italian sunlight.
Michelle was sitting on a balcony. Behind her, the blue water of Lake Como glittered like a postcard. She was wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. She looked glamorous. Expensive. A world away.
"Hi," she said. Her voice sounded tinny, delayed by the thousands of miles between us.
"Hi," I croaked. I cleared my throat. "You look… warm."
"It's seventy degrees," she said, adjusting the camera. "It's disgusting. I miss my sweater. I miss snow."
"You hate snow."
"I know. But I miss… I don't know. Maine."
You.
She didn't say it, but I heard it.
"How is the strategic alliance?" I asked, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.
"Awful," she sighed, taking off her sunglasses.
She looked tired. The dark circles under her eyes were visible even through the screen.
"The Count's son—Matteo—is a sentient polo mallet. He has teeth that are too white and he keeps trying to explain NFTs to me. And my mother… she's drunk by noon and asking me why I haven't had a nose job yet."
"You don't need a nose job," I said instantly. "Your nose is perfect."
She smiled, a small, sad thing. "Thanks, Gavel. How's the fortress?"
"Quiet. Lonely. Beef broke the toaster trying to make a grilled cheese sideways."
She laughed. It was the best sound I had heard all week.
"Listen," she said, her voice dropping. She looked over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone was listening. "I can't talk long. We have a rehearsal dinner in twenty minutes. But I needed to see you. I needed to know you're real."
"I'm real," I said. "I'm right here."
"Are you winning?" she asked. "The playoffs start tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow night. Quarterfinals."
"Win," she ordered. "Channel the rage. Imagine the puck is Matteo's face."
"Done."
"Greg?"
"Yeah?"
"I… I hate it here. I feel like an accessory. I feel like I'm disappearing again."
"You're not disappearing," I said fiercely, leaning into the phone. "I see you. Even from here. I see you."
Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back rapidly.
"Okay," she whispered. "I have to go. My dad is waving at me like I'm a taxi."
"Go. Be strong. Come back to me."
"I'm counting the hours," she said.
The screen went black.
I stared at my reflection in the dark phone screen. I looked tired. I looked desperate.
I looked like a man who was realizing that the golden ticket in his hand wasn't the prize he actually wanted.
The Quarterfinal game against Boston University was a bloodbath.
They were fast, aggressive, and dirty. But we were angry.
Or rather, I was angry.
I played like a man possessed. I hit everything that moved. I blocked shots with my body, ignoring the bruises that bloomed instantly. I scored a goal from the blue line that was fueled purely by frustration.
We won 4-2.
The locker room was a party. Music blasting, towels snapping.
"Captain Clutch!" Johnson yelled, spraying water over me.
I forced a smile. I high-fived the rookies. I did the post-game interview.
But inside, I was hollow.
I showered quickly and left before the team headed to the bar.
I drove back to the house. It was empty. The rest of the guys were celebrating.
I walked into the kitchen. It was dark.
I stood there, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.
I needed… something. I needed to tell someone.
I went upstairs to my room. I unlocked the safe in my closet.
Inside was a small wooden box. I took it out.
I sat on the bed—Michelle's side—and opened it.
Inside were photos. Old, faded Polaroids. A baseball card. A small, toy car.
And a letter.
My brother's suicide note.
I hadn't looked at it in years. I kept it locked away, a radioactive core of pain that I built my walls around.
But tonight, with Michelle’s voice echoing in my head—I feel like I'm disappearing—I needed to touch the pain. To remember why I couldn't disappear.
I unfolded the paper. It was yellowed, brittle.
Greg,
I’m sorry. The noise is just too loud. You keep the quiet for me, okay? Be the wall.
Love, Danny.
I traced the words. Be the wall.
That was it. That was the directive. The burden I had carried since I was twelve years old finding him in the garage.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Michelle: I snuck away from the rehearsal dinner. I'm hiding in a wine cellar. Tell me a story. Tell me something real.
I stared at the text.
Something real.
I picked up the phone. I hit call.
She answered on the first ring.
"Hey," she whispered. "Is the game over? Did we win?"
"We won," I said. "4-2."
"Good. Are you celebrating?"
"No. I'm sitting on my bed holding a letter from my dead brother."
The silence on the line was profound.
"Greg," she breathed.
"You asked me why I play defense," I said, my voice steady but brittle. "Why I need control. Why I have the tattoo."
"You said it was a car accident," she said gently.
"I lied."
I took a breath. It felt like inhaling glass.
"Danny didn't die in a car accident. He… he took his own life. He was sixteen. I was twelve."
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Greg, I… I am so sorry."
"He was the star," I continued, the words spilling out now that the dam was broken. "He was the forward. He was loud, happy, chaotic. Everyone loved him. But he was struggling. And nobody saw it. Not my parents. Not his coaches."
I looked down at the letter.
"I saw it," I whispered. "I was the little brother.
I watched him. I saw him crying in his room.
I saw him stop eating. But I didn't say anything.
I thought… I thought if I just kept everything else perfect, if I got good grades and kept my room clean, it would balance out.
I thought I could create enough order to fix his chaos. "
"You were twelve," she said fiercely. "You couldn't fix him."
"I found him," I said. "In the garage. With the car running."
Michelle made a small, wounded sound.
"And there was a note," I said. "Addressed to me. Not my parents. Me. He told me to 'keep the quiet.' To 'be the wall'."
"That's not fair," she cried. "That is… that is too much to put on a child."
"It was his last wish," I said. "So I did it. I became the wall. I stopped crying. I stopped making noise. I played defense because if I could control the game, maybe nobody else would get hurt. I tried to be perfect so my parents wouldn't lose another son."
Tears dripped onto the paper in my hand. I didn't wipe them away.
"But it's heavy, Michelle," I choked out. "God, it's so heavy. And I'm tired. I'm so tired of holding up the roof."
"Put it down," she said. Her voice was urgent, desperate. "Greg, listen to me. Put it down. You don't have to carry him anymore. You've done enough. You've been the wall for ten years. It's okay to just be a person now."
"I don't know how," I admitted. "I don't know who I am without the wall."
"I know who you are," she said. "You're the guy who made me protein pancakes with chocolate chips. You're the guy who threatened an old lady in a fabric store for me. You're the guy who sees me when I'm invisible."
"Michelle..."
"You're Greg," she said. "Just Greg. And Greg is allowed to be sad. He's allowed to be messy. He's allowed to need help."
I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall freely now.
"I wish you were here," I whispered. "I need you here."
"I'm coming," she said.
"What?"
"I'm leaving. Now. Tonight."
"Michelle, no. The wedding is tomorrow. Your father..."
"Screw my father," she said. "Screw the strategic alliance. Screw the money. You're hurting. And I am sitting in a wine cellar in Italy feeling useless. I'm done. I'm booking the first flight out of Milan."
"He'll cut you off," I warned. "He'll destroy your label."
"Let him," she said. "I can build a label from scratch. I can't build another you."
My heart stopped.
"Michelle, don't do this for me. Please. I can't be the reason you lose everything."
"You're not the reason I'm losing everything," she said. "You're the reason I'm finding myself. I realized something today, watching my mother drink herself into a stupor to tolerate a life she hates. I don't want that. I don't want the money if it costs me my soul."
"Are you sure?"
"I have never been more sure of anything in my life." I heard movement on her end. The rustle of silk. "I'm walking out. Right now. I'm going to the airport."
"I'll pick you up," I said immediately. "In Boston. Or New York. Wherever you land."
"No," she said. "You have a game on Saturday. Semifinals. You stay there. You win. I'll take a cab to the house."
"Michelle..."
"I love you, Greg."
The words hung in the air, suspended across the Atlantic ocean.
She hadn't said it before. Not like that.
"I love you too," I whispered. "So much."
"Then let me do this," she said. "Let me choose you."
"Okay," I said. "Choose me."
"I'm hanging up now to call the airline. I'll see you soon, Gladiator."
"See you soon, Princess."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone.
I looked at the letter one last time.
Be the wall.