11. Holden
Chapter eleven
Holden
" Y ou can't fix everyone, Match."
Trust Grandpa to find me at midnight, hunched over Gran's old journals in her studio, searching for answers like she'd hidden them between the lines of her careful notes. I looked up from a page about art therapy and healing, defensiveness roiling up inside me.
"I wasn't trying to—" The lie died in my throat. "Okay, maybe I was."
"Mmhmm." He settled into the doorway, oxygen tube snaking behind him. "Just like you weren't humming love songs all evening while reorganizing my medications by color instead of time."
"They're easier to identify that way." My cheeks heated up. "And I wasn't humming."
"'Moon River' has never been murdered quite so thoroughly. That was your mother's favorite, and your father butchered it at their wedding if I recall."
"I don't even know the words to 'Moon River.'"
"That was painfully obvious. You were mostly humming 'hmm hmm hmm' with occasional mumbled words that definitely weren't in the original. I think Andy Williams just rolled over in his grave." His eyes crinkled with familiar warmth. "Want to tell me what's really keeping you up? Besides your terrible taste in midnight serenades?"
I'd found a treasure trove in her journals—not only techniques for restoration but also her philosophy about healing through art. My fingers traced her elegant script: The process of restoration isn't about erasing damage but about honoring the journey of healing. Every crack tells a story. Every repair adds to the history.
The words hit differently now that I was falling for someone whose scars ran deeper than skin. I couldn't put Wade's face out of my mind. It was how he winced slightly when he let me touch him.
I picked up a loose page and reread Gran's words. The paper was soft with age, and her handwriting covered both sides:
Art speaks when words fail. It gives shape to pain too deep for language. Sometimes, the greatest gift we can offer is simply witnessing someone else's process of becoming whole.
Grandpa spoke again. "This all is keeping you up late. Why don't we both go to bed?"
His oxygen tube trailed behind him like a faithful pet. "Why are you up?" He was usually only awake so late when something was wrong. "Everything okay?"
"Just restless." He settled into Gran's old wicker chair, the one that still held the impression of her body after all these years. "I would have thought you would be having sweet dreams by now. You've been practically floating since you got home."
"I have not."
"Please." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "You've been flitting around and humming all evening."
The journal's pages rustled as I closed it. "Wade showed me his cabin."
"Ah." Grandpa's voice softened. "That's quite a gift of trust, and do I want to know what happened there."
I blushed fully. "Nothing—well, something, but not what you're worried about." I struggled to find the right words. "I got to see even more of his sketches. He captures light even in the darkest moments. Just like Gran did."
"Belle always said art was how we process the things we can't say out loud." Grandpa adjusted his oxygen tube. "She'd spend hours in here after difficult days, claiming she was just experimenting with techniques. I knew better. She was working through whatever troubled her."
"I wish I'd paid more attention when she tried to teach me."
"Oh, you were paying attention." He reached for one of Gran's journals. "You just didn't know it yet. The way you see the world through that camera of yours? Pure Belle. Always finding exquisitely lovely things in unexpected places."
My phone chimed—a text from Wade:
Can't sleep. Thinking about today.
Before I could respond, another message appeared:
Thank you for seeing past the scars.
Grandpa pointed at me. "That smile right there. That's exactly how I used to look when your grandmother would leave little notes in my lunch bag to take to school."
"Was it scary?" The question slipped out before I could catch it. "Falling in love with her?"
"Terrifying." He chuckled softly. "She was so bright and full of life. I was a nerdy, quiet math teacher who couldn't tell the difference between watercolor and acrylic. But you know what she told me?"
"What?"
"That love isn't about deserving. It's about choosing. Every day, we choose to see what's wonderful in each other, even when it's hidden under scars or fears or oxygen tubes." He patted the machine at his side. "Speaking of which, we really should go to bed. Maria will have our hides if she catches us up this late."
"Just a few more minutes?" I held up Gran's journal. "I want to finish this entry about her restoration philosophy."
"Alright." He settled deeper into the chair. "But read it out loud. Belle's words deserve to be heard, not just read."
I opened to a marked page. I did my best to give her words the reverent reading they deserved. " Sometimes healing looks like destruction at first. We have to scrape away old patches and temporary fixes before we can start true restoration. It's messy and painful, but necessary... "
A harsh buzz from my phone interrupted. Mom's FaceTime icon filled the screen.
Grandpa recognized the sound. "At this hour?" His forehead creased.
I answered, and Mom's face appeared bright—Zoom ready—against what looked like her home office background. Despite the late hour, she had perfectly styled hair—probably because she never went anywhere, even to bed, without looking camera-ready. I'd once caught her doing yoga in full makeup.
"Holden, sweetheart. Why are you still up? Never mind—we have wonderful news. The facility in Milwaukee had a cancellation. They can take your grandfather next week."
The journal slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud. "What?"
"We've handled everything. The paperwork's ready, and they have an excellent rehabilitation program. The director assured me—"
"No." The word came out more forceful than I intended.
"Holden." Dad's voice joined in from somewhere off-screen. "Be reasonable. We've found the best possible care—"
"The best possible care is staying here at home." My voice shook. "With family—Maria and me. With memories. With—"
"With a grandson who's putting his whole life on hold?" Mom's perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together. "Sweetheart, we've discussed this. The strain is getting to you. You're not sleeping, and you're emotional..."
"I'm emotional because it's two in the morning, and you're trying to ship Grandpa off to some facility without even asking what he wants!"
"Clark." Mom's attention shifted. "Tell him. Tell him how much better it would be to have professional care."
Grandpa straightened in his chair, and suddenly, I saw echoes of the firm but gentle high school principal he'd once been. "Actually, Margaret, I think I'll stay right here where I can watch the lake and listen to Belle's wind chimes. Some things matter more than state-of-the-art medical equipment."
"Dad—"
"No." His voice was gentle but firm. "This is my home. My choice."
The call ended, but Mom's protests echoed in my ears. My hands shook as I picked up Gran's fallen journal.
"Well." Grandpa's eyes twinkled despite the tension. "That was about as smooth as when your grandmother decided to teach interpretive dance at the senior center. Old Mr. Peterson got so caught up in expressing himself as an autumn leaf that he tangled himself in the curtains. It took three people to rescue him from the fabric."
A laugh bubbled up through my worry. "Didn't he end up joining a community theater group after that?"
Grandpa nodded. "He scored the lead role in Oklahoma! the following spring. Belle always said she didn't fail at teaching dance—she just helped him find his real stage."
My phone chimed again. It was another text from Wade:
Can't wait to see you again.
After helping Grandpa back to bed, I lay in my room staring at the ceiling, Wade's text message still unanswered on my phone. He'd think I was asleep by now, which was probably for the best. My mind wouldn't stop spinning between my parents' call, Grandpa's quiet strength, and Wade's vulnerability.
Gran's words rattled around in my head: Every crack tells a story, and every repair adds to the history.
I rolled over, pulling up Wade's text again:
Can't wait to see you again.
Something about those simple words, combined with the weight of Gran's journal beside me on the bed, wouldn't let me rest. The clock on my nightstand ticked past 3 AM, then 3:30. By 4, I started throwing on jeans and grabbing my keys.
I couldn't explain the urge that drove me into the pre-dawn darkness. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline from my parents' call, or perhaps it was just that everything felt more urgent in those suspended hours between midnight and morning. Either way, I found myself driving to Wade's cabin.
Pre-dawn fog rolled in from the lake, making the world uncertain and gray. My headlights caught wisps of mist that danced across the road like lost spirits.
I hadn't called first. Maybe because I knew he'd say he was okay or because some part of me didn't want to have him tell me not to come after the chaos with my parents. Or maybe because I thought I had answers, the way young, foolish people often do when faced with someone else's pain.
Wade's truck sat in the driveway, and a lamp glowed in his window despite the early hour. He was probably having another sleepless night. He'd told me those still happened. I'd also noticed the shadows under his eyes growing a bit darker.
He opened the door before I could knock, wearing sweatpants and a faded Chicago FD T-shirt that had seen better days. The sight of that shirt, with its barely legible logo and worn collar, surprised me. He still wore their colors, even now.
"Holden?" The gruffness in his voice couldn't hide his concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything." The words tumbled out as I held up Gran's journal like a shield. "I found something that might help. She wrote about healing through art, about processing trauma and—"
Something in his expression shifted, subtle but devastating. It was like watching a door close in slow motion.
"It's four in the morning." His voice was quiet, controlled—too controlled.
"I know, I know, but these techniques she describes are amazing. There's this whole section about color therapy and how certain pigments can help unlock emotional—"
"Stop." It was only one word, but it hit like a punch to the gut. "Please... stop."
"But if you tried—"
"I'm not one of your grandmother's restoration projects." The words were ragged and raw. "You can't just... fix me with her art theories."
I stumbled back like he'd pushed me, though he hadn't moved. The journal suddenly felt heavy in my hands, its wisdom turning to lead. "That's not what I—"
"Isn't it?" His eyes were the color of storm clouds about to break. "You show up in the middle of the night with a notebook full of solutions, thinking you can somehow paint over all the broken parts?"
"Wade, please. I only wanted—"
"To help. Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture almost violent. "But did you ask if I wanted help? Did you even consider that maybe I'm not something to be fixed? Maybe I'm doing okay?"
Each question landed like another body blow. He was right. God, he was right. I hadn't asked. Just like my parents hadn't asked Grandpa what he wanted. I'd done precisely what I'd accused them of doing—trying to fix someone without allowing them to make their own decisions.
"I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "I'm sorry. I… I hate seeing you hurt. That's all."
"You think I don't see that?" His voice dropped to a lower register. "I see how you look at my scars. Like they're something you can heal if you can find the right... what did your grandmother call it? Technique?"
"No, that's not—"
"Every time I show you something real and broken, you come back with solutions. Tips. Theories." He gestured at the journal in my hand. "That treats me like I'm some kind of project you can restore to mint condition."
"I'm trying to help!" The words burst out, desperate and wrong.
"I don't need that kind of help!" The volume of his response made us both cringe. He took a deep breath, visibly pulling himself back. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less intense. "I need... I need..."
"What?" I whispered. "Tell me what you need."
"I need you to let me be broken sometimes." He slowly exhaled. "Stop trying to fix every crack and scar. They're part of me now, Holden. No matter how many healing techniques you find, they're not going away."
The journal slipped from my fingers, hitting the porch with a soft thud. "I'm terrible at not trying to fix things." I promptly tripped over my own feet while trying to take a step closer, nearly face-planting into his chest. Grace under pressure, Holden .
"I noticed." Wade reached out with a slight smirk on his face. He folded me into a hug. "It's part of what makes you... you. This endless optimism, a belief that everything can be made better. But sometimes better isn't what's needed."
"Then what is?"
"Sometimes..." He looked past me, out the window into the fog-wrapped forest. "Sometimes you just need someone to sit with you in the dark. You don't need them to try to light candles, find circuit breakers, or paint the shadows away. Being there. That's all you need. Someone who understands that some wounds don't heal clean."
I thought about words I'd heard from Grandpa. "Some things can't be fixed. They can only be lived through. Together."
"Can I..." My voice wavered. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Can I just sit with you for a while? No fixing. No solutions. Just... this?"
Wade studied me for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. Then he stepped back, emotionally opening the door wider. "Coffee?"
The word was barely a whisper. It was an olive branch—a new beginning.
"Please."
We ended up on Wade's porch, watching fog curl around the pines while dawn painted the sky in watercolor washes. His shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid. Neither of us spoke, but the silence was healing of a different kind.
When I returned home, the sun had fully risen. Grandpa sat in his chair, crossword puzzle untouched in his lap. The oxygen machine hummed its steady rhythm while he studied me as I walked up to him.
"You look like you've been through a war."
I sank into Gran's old wingback chair, the velvet worn smooth by decades of use. "I messed up, Grandpa."
"Tell me."
"I went to Wade's with one of Gran's journals." The admission was raw in the back of my throat. "I thought... God, I don't know what I thought. That I could somehow fix everything with her art therapy notes? That I could... erase his pain with the right technique?"
"Ah." He set aside his crossword. "Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to help your grandmother organize her studio?"
I shook my head.
"It was right after we got married. She had all those art supplies everywhere—paints, brushes, half-finished projects. It drove my methodical teacher's brain crazy." He chuckled softly. "So one day, while she was at the gallery, I spent hours organizing everything. I created color-coded labels, special containers, and a whole system for keeping track of her works in progress."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing, at first. She stood silent in the doorway, staring at all my helpful improvements. Then, she started crying."
My chest tightened. "Why?"
"Because I'd tried to impose order on her creative chaos. I'd seen what I thought was a problem and tried to fix it without understanding that her 'mess' was a vital part of her process." He adjusted his oxygen tube. "It took me years to realize that sometimes when we try to fix things, we're really trying to make them fit our understanding of how they should be."
"Like Mom and Dad with the facility."
"Like all of us who love too eagerly." His voice was gentle. "We see someone's pain or struggle and think, 'If I do this one thing, make this one change, find this one solution...' Unfortunately, healing isn't linear. It's more like Belle's artistic process—messy and unpredictable."
I thought about Wade's face when I'd shown up with the journal. "He said he needed me to let him be broken sometimes."
"Smart man." Grandpa leaned forward, his breathing slightly labored but his eyes clear. "You know what else your grandmother taught me? Art isn't about perfection. It's about truth. Sometimes the most powerful pieces are the ones that show how fragile they are."
"Like kintsugi," I murmured, remembering one of Gran's favorite art forms. "The Japanese practice of mending broken pottery with gold."
"Exactly. The breaks become part of what makes the object gorgeous." He reached for my hand. "But here's the thing about kintsugi—you can't rush it. Each layer needs time to set and become strong. Try to hurry the process, and the gold doesn't hold."
"I wanted so badly to help him." My voice cracked. "To make it better."
"Of course you did. You're a fixer, Match. Like your mother and like me. We see problems and want solutions." His fingers tightened on mine. "But sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is witness someone's journey without trying to direct it."
"How do you do that? Sit with someone's pain?"
"Practice. Patience. A lot of biting your tongue when solutions pop into your head." He smiled softly. "And remembering that love isn't about fixing someone. It's about creating a safe space where they can heal in their own way and at their own pace."
I thought about Wade's request—sitting with him and letting the silence be enough. "It's harder than fixing things."
"Much harder, but, ultimately, more lasting and more meaningful." He settled back in his chair, suddenly looking tired. "You know why I won't go to that facility?"
"Because it's not home?"
"Because there, I'd just be a collection of problems to solve. Oxygen levels, medication schedules, therapy goals." He gestured at the room around us, at Gran's paintings on the walls and her wind chimes singing softly outside. "Here, I get to be human. I can be messy, complicated, and sometimes struggle, but I can still be me."
The parallel hit me hard. "Like Wade with his scars."
"We all have scars, Match. Some are just more visible than others." He tapped his oxygen tube. "The trick isn't fixing them. It's learning to live with them and maybe even appreciate how they've shaped us."
I spoke slowly. "I think I need to learn to love more like Gran did."
"How's that?"
"Seeing the beauty in imperfection and understanding that you can't rush some things." I squeezed his hand. "Being brave enough to let people be who they are, even when it hurts to watch them struggle."
"Now that," Grandpa smiled, "sounds like a restoration worth undertaking."
Maybe love was less about having answers and more about having courage—the courage to stick around and let people heal in their way at their own pace.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Wade:
Thank you for teaching me how to sit with the storm.
Thank you for staying even when you can't fix the rain.