Page 19 of Breaking Through

"I know, but—" The words stuck in my throat. "Mom and Dad think—"

"Your parents are worried. It's what parents do, even from across an ocean." He adjusted his oxygen tube. "But they aren't here, and we get to decide."

I remembered the video call three months ago. My parents' faces were serious on the screen, pixelated, but still able to deliver disappointing comments in high definition. Dad had approached it like one of his corporate mergers—all logistics and rational points, spreadsheets of pros and cons.

Mom's silence had hurt more than Dad's efficiency. She'd just sat there, her hand pressed against her mouth, probably remembering how Gran had refused to leave this house even in her final days.

They told us their choice was an excellent facility—the best in Wisconsin. They'd handle everything, and I could return to Portland and restart my life.

"Your mother thinks you're putting your life on hold." Grandpa stared at me, trying to read my expression. "She forgets that sometimes the best parts of life happen in the pauses in between."

Outside, a car door slammed. Voices drifted up from the street—afternoon giving way to evening in Blue Harbor. I thought about Portland and about the life I'd planned. It felt distant now, like a story I'd read about someone else.

"I need something sweet." Grandpa grinned. "Something from Sarah's case at the Bean would be perfect. You know, that baker, Rafe. He works wonders. Those lemon squares he bakes on Thursdays..."

I recognized the deflection but played along. "It's barely fifty degrees out. You sure you want me wandering the streets for baked goods?"

"Positive. My sugar's probably low." He patted his chest dramatically. "Medically necessary."

"You're worse than Parker when he needs coffee." I reached for my jacket. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

The evening air smelled like autumn, crisp and clean after the storm. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk, and the streetlights were just starting to flicker on. The Little Blue Bean's windows glowed warm against the gathering dark.

A forest-green ranger truck, parked in the diagonal spot near the corner, caught my eye. The dashboard still held the day's clipboard and what looked like a trail map, the engine ticking as it cooled. The front was splashed with mud—probably from checking the north trails after yesterday's storm. Something about seeing Wade's truck here, so far from his usual domain in the park, made my pulse quicken.

I was so focused on the pastry case I could see through the storefront window that I nearly collided with someone outside the shop.

"Sorry, I—" My words died as I looked up into storm-gray eyes. Wade stood there in his ranger uniform, looking somehow both exhausted and alert. He had tousled salt and pepper hair. He'd likely been running his fingers through it.

"Careful." His voice was gruff, but his hand on my elbow was gentle and steadying. " Are you okay?"

The warmth of his touch spread through my entire body. "Yeah, I just, um, Grandpa wanted lemon squares." I gestured vaguely at the shop. "Apparently, it's a medical emergency."

Something flickered in Wade's expression. "Clark's not doing well?"

The simple question, colored with genuine concern, broke down a wall. Words spilled out before I could stop them. "His oxygen levels keep dropping. It's nothing critical, but my parents want him to move to this facility in Milwaukee. He refuses, and I don't know if I'm helping or hurting by supporting that decision, and—" I caught myself. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear all of this."

Wade was quiet for a moment, his hand still on my elbow. The street lamp caught the silver threading through his temples, and I fought an urge to reach up and touch it.

"You should..." Wade shifted his weight, looking like he might walk away. His jaw worked for a moment before he seemed to come to a decision. "Sarah's got fresh coffee. Might help."

Inside, the café was winding down for the evening, just a handful of regulars scattered at corner tables with their laptops. Katie, the evening barista, looked up from wiping down the counter. Her eyes widened slightly at seeing Wade, but she didn't comment.

"Two coffees." Wade's voice was clipped, professional—his ranger voice. Then something softened almost imperceptibly around his eyes. "And, uh, there's that vanilla thing you usually..."He trailed off, studying the menu board like it was a trail map.

"You remember my coffee order?"

A slight flush colored his neck. "Hard to forget when Sarah announces it every time you walk in."

We settled at a corner table where the overhead speaker leaked soft jazz into the air. The ceramic mugs clinked against the wooden tabletop, and the coffee's steam curled between us like morning mist off the lake. Wade wrapped his hands around his mug, and I noticed callouses on his fingers, probably from rope work and tools.

He stared into his coffee for a long moment. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the mug, and I could almost see him wrestling with whether to say more. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Back in Chicago..." He stopped and rolled his shoulders like they ached. "With the fire department, we'd get called to nursing homes sometimes." The words came out rough. "Good ones, expensive ones, but it was easy to sort out which residents still had family visiting. They had... light in their eyes, stories to tell."

I traced the rim of my mug. "That's what worries me. He's always been such a great storyteller, and I'm concerned he might get frustrated and stop. His house and this town are huge parts of who he is."

"And who you are."

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