Page 63 of Breaking Through

"That too." His laugh was unexpected and genuine. "But I meant the next step. The part where you stop waiting for happiness like it's something you have to earn."

Understanding bloomed. He wasn't just talking about the program.

I stared at the wall where new stories mingled with old ones—fresh sketches beside Gran's waves and Marcus's storms. "You think I'm still holding back."

"I know you are." Mike gathered his supplies with military precision. "Same way you hesitated before taking that first sip of coffee this morning. Like you're not sure you deserve good things."

He was right. Even now, with the therapy program launching successfully and Holden's career expanding in exciting directions, I kept waiting for the other boot to drop. I kept expecting happiness to evaporate like morning fog.

"Jenkins used to say something." The memory surfaced unexpectedly. "About how we spend so much time preparing for fires that we forget to build homes."

"Smart man."

"Yeah." I touched one of Martinez's geometric drawings where precision gave way to organic curves. "He also said I overthought."

Mike shouldered his pack. "Thinking's not the problem. It's the waiting. You've built something here, Forrester. Program, purpose, partnership—none of it's temporary. None of it's going to disappear if you fully claim it."

The shelter held its breath. New art covered its walls—not just memories of trauma but proof of survival and healing.

"I have my grandfather's ring." The words emerged before I could overthink them. "My mother's father, not my dad's. He gave it to me before he died, said to save it for someone who made me believe in second chances."

Mike's expression didn't change, but his eyes crinkled slightly. "That's what all this is about, isn't it? Second chances, new stories, different ways of seeing old wounds."

"You think it's too soon?"

"I think time stops meaning much when you've walked through fire and found something worth living for on the other side." He gestured at the artwork surrounding us. "Look what happened here today. People walked in carrying darkness and walked out carrying something else. Something like hope."

"You know what else Jenkins used to say?" I smiled at the memory. "That the best firefighters know when to stop planning and start living."

"Sounds like my old Gunny. He'd say 'analysis paralysis kills more Marines than bad intel.'" Mike's hand found my shoulder. "Go find your photographer, Forrester. Show him what happened here today. Then show him what could happen tomorrow."

After he left, I stood alone in the shelter, surrounded by art that spoke of endings and beginnings. My hand found thering box in my pocket—carried for weeks, waiting for the right moment.

Mike was right. There was no perfect moment or guaranteed safe time to step off the edge and trust someone to catch you. There was only now.

I gathered my sketches—both versions, both truths—and headed for the door. Holden would be at the Bean, probably reviewing gallery proposals and worrying about balancing his growing opportunities with our life here.

It was time to show him he didn't have to choose. It was time to show him that some stories could hold everything—darkness and light, past and future, broken places and healing hearts.

Time to stop preparing for fires and start building something fireproof.

Chapter nineteen

Holden

Leaning against the Little Blue Bean's storefront window, I smoothed the glossy pages ofPhotogenesisfor the hundredth time, still unable to quite believe the article was real. The magazine's elegant typography framed my Polaroids, making familiar scenes feel new again—Wade teaching kids about watersheds, the way sunlight fractured through storm-damaged trees, and Mike's charcoal sketches displayed anonymously in the visitor center.

Nina Chen, the editor, had transformed my daily ritual into something that appeared both intimate and universal. She'd woven together the park's physical restoration with its new role in emotional healing, making connections I hadn't noticed while taking the photos.

"The artist's unconventional choice of equipment mirrors the programs' emphasis on hands-on healing," she wrote. "Each Polaroid captures not just a moment, but a possibility."

My fingers traced the edge of my favorite shot—Wade's hands cradling one veteran's first tentative sketch, both their expressions focused beyond the frame. We'd been carefulabout privacy, never showing the faces of program participants without explicit permission. Somehow, that made the images more powerful, allowing the viewers to fill in their own stories.

I tried the door, and the Bean's front door chimed. Sarah shouted from inside: "Don't you dare peek, Holden Harlow! We're not ready yet!"

I quickly shut the magazine and tried to look innocent. "I only wanted coffee!"

"Nice try." She cracked the door wide enough to stick her head out. "Give us ten more minutes. Rafe's putting final touches on his masterpiece."

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