Stone

  This building is stunning, heavy on the industrial design. The brickwork continues inside, the staircase done in maple and black iron. At the top, the hallway’s been done in the same light maple with three doors on the left, which Harlow said were smaller units, and two on the right.

  I walk down the hall. Unit four is the first on the right and sits an equal distance between two and three on the left.

  Taking a breath, it hits me that I’m getting ready to see my brother for the first time in forever. He won’t physically be inside, but his spirit will be. There will be evidence as to the type of man he’d become while we were estranged these last few years.

  If I take that step inside, it means I can no longer ignore our differences. I can’t continue to be angry with him for not doing more, for perpetuating the way the family dynamics had shifted to me becoming the outsider and to him taking all our parents’ attention and devotion.

  It means I’m going to have to attempt to understand him.

  Christ, this is hard as hell.

  It takes some resolve, but I make myself open the door, thankful that Harlow didn’t come up with me. It really didn’t have anything to do with that damn dog, but more that I didn’t want her witnessing any potential vulnerability I might exhibit. Hell, just the hesitation in entering would have embarrassed me as she could never imagine the extent of our family dysfunction.

  Or maybe she could.

  I don’t know how close she and Brooks were, but she came to his funeral. She’s talked about him with clear grief in her expression. At first, I thought she was merely his attorney, but if she came to the burial service, I can only conclude they were together. Maybe just dating, maybe serious. She said Odin had been in his place many times, so they were lovers, for sure.

  Not sure why that bothers me, but it does. Thus, I’m really glad she’s not here to go through the condo with me.

  Once I disarm the security system, I take my first gander at what was a piece of my brother.

  His home.

  I’m shocked at how refined he’d become. Two years younger than me, he was only twenty-five when he died. He came into the league at twenty-one, an immature but driven hockey player with a solid work ethic. I was with the Eagles and he was with the Titans, and we often made news—brothers in the league was newsworthy.

  Those were the days when we were still close, and we’d visit each other when we could during the season. If we played in the other’s city and the team stayed overnight, we’d crash at each other’s place and catch up. The year the Eagles won the Cup, Brooks came to every single playoff game to cheer me on.

  That summer, Brooks and I went to Australia and New Zealand. Spent three weeks traveling around together, and it seemed that our perfect lives couldn’t get more perfect.

  What I didn’t know then was that it could go downhill so fast.

  That summer was the last good time I remember with Brooks. At the start of the next season, I got injured and started my struggle to stay within the professional ranks. Over the next four years, I was either recuperating from my injury, fighting to stay on the Eagles, or battling down in the minors for a shot to return to the pros. It was back and forth, another injury, and suddenly, my perfect world was as imperfect as it could be.

  And that’s when Brooks and my parents left me behind.

  My parents jumped ship immediately, only going to see Brooks play. They never came to one minor league game of mine.

  Brooks’s abandonment came slower, and I might have helped perpetuate it. He’d reach out to check on me, but I’d often play it up that there were no problems. He’d think all was cool. I never really checked up on him, because I could see in the stats and on ESPN he was doing very well for himself.

  Because I was in the minors and he was not, we didn’t have multiple visits a year in each other’s cities. The summers I was working, teaching hockey camps for extra cash while he and my parents traveled. It was gradual, but by this past year before Brooks died, we were almost completely estranged, other than the odd check-in call or text such as we had at Christmas. I hadn’t seen him in well over a year and my parents in even longer than that.

  I was an island unto myself.

  I shake my head, dispelling those morose, lonely memories, and take in Brooks’s home.

  It shocks me at first, because it’s stunning, really. I hadn’t known he’d bought something. I knew when he joined the Titans, he started out in a really nice apartment that was just a one-bedroom. He said he’d hardly be there, so why bother with more space to clean up?

  As if he’d ever clean up.

  My brother was the perpetual slob from childhood to adulthood, the type who would let dirty dishes accumulate until he ran out and was forced to wash them. The type who would leave clothes lying around and a thick layer of dust on things.

  His condo is pristine, nothing out of place. It’s beautifully done, with the light maple floors running throughout, some of the walls done in brick and others painted a grayish-blue with black, exposed ductwork running overhead. The living area is bright with lots of windows on both sides, the furniture is high-end but comfortable looking, and built-ins are tastefully filled with books and sculptures. The art on the wall is modern and plentiful with big canvases strategically placed to make it seem like you’re walking through a gallery.

  I roam the place slowly, running my hand over furniture, picking up framed photos to try to get insight into his life. Many of the photos are of him and his friends on the Titans. Always smiling, always having fun.

  Brooks was what many professional players are when they’re young and just starting out—brash, cocky, and always eager to have a good time. Hell, I was that way too. Brooks liked to party, always seemed to have one or two ladies on his arm when we were all out together, and was one of those guys who seemed to get more jovial the more he drank.

  He was a lot of fucking fun to hang out with, and I just now realize that I miss that. I had for so long refused myself the ability to confront the things I’d lost that it robs me of my breath for a moment.

  There are some photos of Brooks with Harlow. Often within a group of other people, but they have their arms around each other’s waists. They made a beautiful couple.

  There are even photos with Brooks and that damn dog Odin.

  As I take it all in, a few things become clear. There are no photos of me anywhere in his house. There are also no photos of our parents. And there seem to be no photos that I’d gauge to be older than a year or two. Maybe with purchasing this place, he decided to fill it with only new memories and not old, and that seems to hold with the fact that he had no qualms with leaving me behind as his star rose and mine fell.

  Now the anger starts, and it fills me up with a tarry blackness deep in my chest. I try to push it away, but bitterness has become a way of life for so long, it’s difficult. This place isn’t just Brooks’s home, it’s a mausoleum of his life without me, and I know I could never live here.

  I decide to check out the upstairs and climb the freestanding staircase upward. The two guest rooms are large and tastefully decorated, a bathroom in between. Back downstairs, I find the master is spacious and has a brick accent wall behind the massive bed—the other walls are in that same grayish-blue as downstairs. The furnishings are modern and contemporary, tasteful art graces the walls, and my eyes spy one lonely, framed photograph on the dresser.

  I walk up to it, a lump forming in my throat.

  It’s of me and Brooks after the Eagles won the Cup. I’m still in my gear, sweaty and grinning like a fool. He’s beside me, our arms slung over each other’s shoulders, and he’s grinning just as wide. I have no clue who took the photo. Probably my mom, but I don’t even remember that moment. Winning the Cup was a blur.

  But Brooks chose to frame that photo to commemorate days gone by, perhaps as a shrine to our relationship before it died.

  Fuck.

  Fuck him and the feelings.

  ♦

  I trudge back to Harlow’s law office, knocking snow off my boots before entering the foyer. I stomp more off on the thick mat just inside and shrug out of my coat before entering the reception area.

  Bonita is at her desk and looks up at me pleasantly. “Finished with your walk-through?”

  I nod, moving to her desk and handing over the keys.

  She looks disappointed as she takes them. “You’re not going to keep the condo? I thought for sure you’d want it.”

  “I do,” I reply. Her eyebrows shoot up, and she smiles. “I don’t own it yet, though, so I figured I’d turn the keys back in until Harlow has to do whatever paperwork.”

  “I’m pretty sure you can move in immediately,” Bonita says, then nods at Harlow’s office door. “But why don’t you go in and let her know. There are documents you need to sign.”

  I start to pivot away, but the jangle of keys grabs my attention. She holds them out to me. “You’ll need these.”

  I accept the keys to Brooks’s condo.

  No, my condo.

  Well, our condo. I think Brooks’s ghost will be there for some time to come. Maybe permanently.

  Harlow’s head pops up as I enter. Odin’s does the same, and he emits a low growl.

  Stupid dog.

  “Odin,” Harlow says, warning in her tone. He looks up at her, eyes innocent, and his tongue falls out the side of his mouth.

  She’s utterly charmed and scratches his head, and I realize how devious that dog is. I’d say I have to make sure I never turn my back on him, but truth is, after this meeting, I won’t ever see him or Harlow again.

  I sit down in the chair I’d used earlier. “I’ll take the condo. What do I need to do?”

  Harlow smiles, genuinely pleased. “I think that’s awesome. I know it would make Brooks happy.”

  I hold my tongue because I’m not doing this to make him happy. He’s dead.

  She grabs a folder and pulls out documents. “I have some stuff for you to sign to transfer ownership. You can move in immediately, of course. You’ll need to decide what to do with the Potter County house. It’s really a gorgeous, upscale cabin. Your brother spent a lot of time there in the summers, fishing and hiking.”

  I struggle to keep my expression placid.

  Hiking and fishing? I didn’t even know Brooks liked to do those things.

  “Have you been to the cabin?” I ask her. “Is it a good investment?”

  “I’ve been there a few times,” she says, her smile going soft and fond. Maybe she’s remembering romantic times with my brother, and that’s not something I want to think about.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, before she can answer my question about investment potential. My tone is slightly accusatory.

  Harlow scowls. “Get what?”

  “You and my brother.” I think about that condo and how it wasn’t like him at all. I think she might have had a hand in helping him with it. “I mean, that condo wasn’t his taste at all. It was so neat and nicely decorated, things he never really cared about. And you—”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.” I wave my hand in a flourish to indicate her, the dog, the office. “You’re educated. Successful by all appearances. Brooks never gravitated to that. Never wanted to settle down. He was more apt to have a puck bunny on each arm than play house with a businesswoman. You don’t seem his type.”

  Harlow’s eyes flare slightly before they get a warm burn of what I think might be empathy. I don’t like it. I feel like I’ve miscalculated something.

  “I think you’re very keen in some observations, but others, not so much. I am absolutely not your brother’s type. We were just incredibly close friends.”

  “So you and he weren’t…?”

  She shakes her head, a long lock of dark red hair falling loose from her ponytail. She brushes it back, tucks it behind her ear. “I know this is going to be a bit of a shock, but when I tell you I wasn’t Brooks’s type, I mean, he wasn’t into women.”

  I hear what she’s saying, but I’m not sure I understand.

  She clarifies. “Brooks was gay.”

  “No fucking way,” I murmur, shaking my head. “I would have known.”

  “Would you?” Her pointed expression makes it clear I wasn’t a part of Brooks’s life for a long time. I didn’t know things.

  “I’ve known him his entire life,” I growl in disbelief. “We may have been estranged the last few years, but I would have known. He would have told me.”

  “Your brother struggled with it since he was eleven,” she says, and her tone is so sure and level, I know she’s telling me the truth right from Brooks’s mouth. “He was afraid of your dad. Couldn’t come out to him. As he got older, that fear increased. I hadn’t met your father until the funeral, but Brooks said he was strict… intolerant.”

  I nod, because that’s accurate. “Very conservative.”

  “And when Brooks played college hockey and then made it into the league, it wasn’t feasible for him to come out. It’s just not done. So, he put on a persona, and everyone thought he loved the ladies, but he most certainly did not.”

  “Jesus,” I grumble, rubbing my hand along my jaw. How could he not have told me? He had to have known I wouldn’t care. I mean, I understand why he didn’t these last few years because we hardly talked, but prior to that… “He should have told me. He had to have known I would’ve had his back.”

  “You and your brother liked to play the blame game,” she says softly. “Many times he would tell me you should’ve done something too.”

  She may have a point.

  More guilt piles onto my shoulders as I try to think of what I might have done in our youth to make him think it was something he had to keep secret. Was it because, while we were close as kids, I was the apple of our dad’s eye? I was the oldest, the one with the greatest potential to make something of myself in hockey. Attention was poured into me, and I’m not going to lie—I relished it.

  Did that make Brooks believe I was more aligned with my father than he was? Because I wasn’t. My dad was a tyrant on the ice and in the house. I busted my ass in hockey because he made me.

  Brooks was the good part of my childhood.

  In the course of just a few hours, Harlow Alston and this damn trust left by my brother have managed to throw my emotions into disarray. Everything I thought I knew, and now I realize I knew nothing at all.

  “I’ll take the cabin,” I murmur.

  “Good,” she says softly and shuffles more papers as I stare down at my lap. “I’ve got everything prepared for you to sign, hoping you’d take everything he wanted you to have.”

  I nod, thinking about arranging movers to get me over there. Poor Bethany just spent all that time this past week making my cheap little apartment look nice. She left this morning, proud of her accomplishments. I’ll call her later and fill her in. She’ll want to rush back and help, but I’m going to insist she not. I want to tackle this myself because I don’t know exactly how this is going to go.

  It takes about twenty minutes to review all the paperwork. Bonita comes in as I sign and notarizes where appropriate. When it’s done, she slips out and I stand, a folder in hand with my copies of the trust paperwork.

  “One more thing,” Harlow says as she rises from her chair. “Your brother journaled, and he kept several notebooks over the years, especially the last few. He specifically wanted me to make sure you got them. That you read them.”

  I stare at her, trying not to let those words penetrate. Because I’ve already confronted enough ghosts for today.

  “They’re in his bedroom. In his closet.”

  She stares at me, and I’m wondering if she’s waiting on me to agree to read them.

  Not fucking doing that.

  “Thanks for all your help,” I say politely. “I appreciate it.”

  Harlow’s green eyes darken with sadness, but she simply nods. I pivot and walk out of her office, glad to be done with this but a little unsettled that my dealings with her are finished. She’s the closest thing I’ve got to Brooks.

  I shrug it off and stop by Bonita’s desk. She has the Hepplewhite in the conference room, so I take it off her hands, along with the broken leg. I’ll drop it by the restoration place and pay them. I’ll also make arrangements to have it delivered back, and then my business will be officially concluded with Harlow Alston, Esquire.

  CHAPTER 9

  Harlow

  I’m a trust-fund kid, and I own it. I’ve had the privilege of growing up in Pittsburgh’s East End in a historic mansion built in 1924 by my great-great-grandfather, the original founder of the Alston Law Group. It’s a gorgeous French Normandy-style Tudor sitting on a rare lot of over an acre on Beechwood Boulevard. The grandeur of Juliet balconies, arched windows with leaded, mullion windows, and vaulted ceilings make it a work of art in and of itself.

  The grounds are magical with trimmed hedge paths and pockets of spring and summer blooming cottage gardens hidden throughout. Currently, it’s covered in snow, and Odin is romping around in it with my parents’ two Berners, Loki and Freya, while I stand on the back patio to watch. The property isn’t fenced, and while they’re highly obedient when called, we don’t want to take the chance they’ll run off chasing some squirrel.

  The house, just over nine thousand square feet, has been passed down through the family, and my parents still happily live here, even though it’s far too big for them. Mom keeps telling me that she wants lots of room for the grandchildren that are sure to be coming. As to who will live here after they pass on—me or Brian—my parents joke it’s the first to get married and have kids. Brian and I cringe every time they mention it, because neither of us is ready for that. I’m too busy with my career, and my brother is too busy being a playboy in Europe. He’s been unofficially known as “the wonder” since he showed no interest in pursuing a legal career or producing heirs, as in we all wonder what the hell he’ll do with his life.

  Personally, I admire Brian for forging his own path, even though he’s a little shiftless and lazy and content to just play with his trust money. But he’s a good man, and we all figure he’ll mature one day.