Chapter 13 #2
I folded it up. But instead of putting it back in the box, I tore it in half.
Then I tore it again. And again. Until it was just confetti.
I walked to the window and opened it. I threw the pieces out into the night wind.
I watched them scatter, disappearing into the darkness.
I wasn't the wall anymore.
I was a man in love with a woman who was flying across an ocean to save me.
And for the first time in ten years, the silence in the room didn't feel like a tomb.
It felt like a beginning.
Michelle
I didn't pack everything. I didn't have time.
I shoved my passport, my wallet, and my sketchbook into my tote bag. I left the silk dresses. I left the heels. I left the "acceptable" version of Michelle Vane hanging in the closet of the Villa d’Este.
I walked out of the wine cellar.
I crossed the lobby.
"Michelle?"
My father was standing near the concierge desk, holding a glass of scotch. He looked impeccable. Cold.
I stopped.
"Where are you going?" he asked, eyeing my bag. "The rehearsal dinner hasn't started."
"I'm leaving, Dad," I said.
He stared at me. "Leaving? Leaving the hotel?"
"Leaving Italy. Leaving this life."
He laughed. A short, sharp bark. "Don't be dramatic. Go upstairs and change. Matteo is waiting."
"Tell Matteo to marry his polo horse," I said. "I'm going home."
His face hardened. "If you walk out those doors, Michelle, don't expect to come back. The credit cards will be cancelled before you reach the airport. The tuition checks stop. The trust fund freezes. You will have nothing."
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
I saw the fear behind his eyes. The fear of losing control.
"I won't have nothing," I said calmly. "I'll have my talent. I'll have my freedom. And I'll have someone who actually loves me."
"The hockey player?" He sneered. "You're throwing away millions for a college athlete? He'll leave you, Michelle. Once he makes the NHL, once he gets famous... he'll trade you in for a model. That's what men do."
"That's what you do," I corrected. "Greg isn't you."
I took a step toward the door.
"You're making a mistake!" he shouted. People were turning to look. For once, he was the one making a scene.
"Maybe," I said. "But it's my mistake."
I pushed through the revolving doors.
The night air was warm, smelling of jasmine and lake water.
A taxi was waiting.
"Milano Malpensa," I told the driver. "And drive fast."
I got in.
I pulled out my phone. I opened my banking app.
I transferred the remainder of my checking account—about five thousand dollars, money I had saved from selling vintage clothes online—to a new account I had opened last week.
It wasn't millions. It wasn't enough to buy a G-Wagon.
But it was enough to buy a plane ticket to Maine.
I leaned my head back against the seat and watched the villa disappear in the rearview mirror.
I felt lighter than air.
I was broke. I was disowned.
And I was finally, wonderfully free.
The flight was long. I didn't sleep.
I sketched.
I designed a new collection. Not for the runway. Not for the critics.
For me.
Soft fabrics. Strong silhouettes. Armor that didn't hide the person inside, but protected them.
I landed in Boston at 2:00 PM on Saturday.
I took a bus to Portland. Then an Uber to Precipice Bay.
It was snowing again. Of course.
The Uber pulled up to the Ice Box at 6:00 PM.
The house was dark.
They were at the game. Semifinals.
I dragged my bag up the steps. I used my key—I still had it.
I walked inside.
It smelled of him. Cedar. Cold air.
I dropped my bag in the hallway.
I didn't unpack. I didn't shower.
I called an Uber to the arena.
I had a game to watch.
I walked into the arena just as the second period was starting.
The crowd was deafening. It was a sea of black and grey.
I didn't go to the family section. I didn't want to see the other parents.
I went to the standing room section, near the glass.
I scanned the ice.
There he was. Number 24.
He looked… different.
He wasn't playing with that robotic, tight control. He was playing with fire. He was skating faster. He was taking risks.
He carried the puck up the ice—something he rarely did. He deked a defender. He took a shot.
He missed.
But he laughed. I saw it. He actually smiled at his teammate.
He looked free.
He skated back to the bench. He grabbed his water bottle.
He looked up at the family section, scanning row four.
He frowned when he saw it was empty.
My heart squeezed.
I pushed my way to the glass.
"Greg!" I screamed, though I knew he couldn't hear me through the plexiglass.
But maybe he felt it.
Because his head snapped to the right. He scanned the crowd.
His eyes found me.
I waved. A small, frantic wave.
He froze. He stood up on the bench.
Coach Miller grabbed his jersey to pull him back down, but Greg shook him off.
He stared at me.
Then, he tapped his chest. Three times. Hard.
I love you.
I tapped my chest back.
He grinned. A wide, brilliant grin that lit up the entire arena.
He vaulted over the boards for his next shift.
He played the rest of the game like a man who had already won the only prize that mattered.
Blackwood won 3-1. They were going to the Finals.
As the buzzer sounded, the team mobbed the goalie.
But Greg skated away from the pile. He skated straight to the glass where I was standing.
He took off his glove. He placed his hand against the glass.
I placed my hand against his.
We stood there, separated by two inches of plexiglass, surrounded by screaming fans.
He mouthed one word.
Home.
I nodded.
Home.