13. Holden

Chapter thirteen

Holden

T he new medication organizer was a wonder of modern design, sitting on Grandpa's kitchen counter. It was forest green with seven perfectly engineered compartments. It had taken three pharmacy visits and one very determined medical supply clerk to find something that worked as well as I wanted.

Finally, we had it. There would be no more fumbling with child-proof caps or squinting at tiny labels. The manufacturer had clearly consulted real seniors before designing this one. It included smooth-sliding lids, crisp lettering, and compartments deep enough to hold the whole day's worth of pills without spilling.

I double-checked each day against Dr. Matthews's master list, ensuring the built-in divider properly separated the morning and evening doses. The new inhaler—some cutting-edge design that had Grandpa muttering about "newfangled gadgets"—nestled perfectly into its designated slot.

"Match." Grandpa called from the living room, his voice more robust than I'd heard it in weeks. "If you're rewriting those labels in calligraphy, I'm staging an intervention."

"That was one time." I inserted a growl beneath the words. "And in my defense, your handwriting is terrible."

"I was a principal. Bad handwriting is a job requirement." He appeared in the doorway, oxygen tube draped over his shoulder in what he called his casual Friday look. The unit hummed steadily, and its sound was now the house's heartbeat—familiar, necessary, no longer frightening.

"The new treatment's working." I watched him walk to his usual chair without shuffling. He had more confidence than he'd shown in months. It wasn't only hope or wishful thinking. The oxygen levels had stabilized enough that Maria felt comfortable scheduling days off instead of being on call.

"Don't sound so surprised." Grandpa settled into the chair, barely winded. "Some of us are too stubborn to follow expected trajectories."

I started the coffee. For him, it was decaf, but for me, I needed a fully loaded brew. I was all smiles until a certain park ranger entered my mind again.

Wade's memorial service in Chicago was barely a week away, and the weight of my promise to be there for him while not wanting to leave Grandpa sat heavy in my chest.

Before I could stew about it for long, my phone rang. It was Mom's specific ringtone. Grandpa frowned as I answered. Instead of showing her overly professional Zoom-ready appearance, she'd opted for a voice call.

"Holden, sweetheart." To my surprise, her voice had lost that brittle edge it used to get when discussing Grandpa's care. "How are his numbers today?"

"Stable." I leaned against the counter, watching Grandpa pretend he wasn't listening intently. "The new inhaler's making a real difference. Maria says—"

"That's actually why I'm calling." She took an audible breath.

My stomach clenched, ready for another carefully crafted argument about facilities and professional care. But Mom's following words knocked the air from my lungs.

"There's a service that specializes in respiratory support. They work with families to maintain care in the home environment. They've got an excellent success rate with cases like your grandfather's."

I gripped the counter edge, suddenly needing the support. After months of facility brochures appearing in my email and heated arguments about "proper medical supervision" and "quality of life metrics," it sounded like she'd changed her mind.

"You're researching home care?" My voice cracked on the last word. Across the kitchen, Grandpa set down his coffee cup, attention razor-sharp. I switched the call to speaker.

"Well, yes." Papers rustled on her end—not the efficient shuffle of someone organizing talking points, but the nervous fidgeting I remembered from childhood when she struggled to admit being wrong about something. "I've been watching the videos you send, seeing how he lights up when telling stories to your coworkers. I smile when he still corrects Parker's grammar even while accepting all those baked goods. I see how he talks about Isabella's art with the neighbors..."

She paused, and I heard the edge of tears in her voice. "He's not merely surviving there, Holden. He's living. Sometimes, we get so focused on medical charts and recovery statistics that we forget about the heart of things. Your grandmother would have seen it immediately. I'm sorry it took me longer."

"Mom..." I had to swallow hard past the lump in my throat.

"I keep thinking about what she used to tell us about how healing happens best in familiar soil. I didn't understand then, but watching everything unfold these past several months and seeing how he's improved being surrounded by memory and meaning..." Another rustle of papers, this time accompanied by a laugh. "Let's just say I've never been happier to admit I was wrong about something."

Grandpa called from the living room. "Margaret," he said, voice carrying clearly to the phone, "you sound just like Belle when she finally admitted that beige was, in fact, not the only acceptable color for living room walls."

The laugh that burst from Mom was real and raw and nothing like her professional telephone voice. It was the laugh I remembered from childhood before corporate success and international moves polished away her rough edges.

"I just want what's best for you."

"I know. And what's best is right here, where I can hear Belle's wind chimes and watch my grandson learn the same lessons about love and care that you once did."

The doorbell interrupted what might have been my mother's first explanation about misjudging something I could remember. Before I could answer it, Parker burst through the door, juggling three Little Blue Bean cups and what looked like a picnic basket.

"Sarah's gone rogue with the baking again." He gingerly set everything on the kitchen counter. "She claims Rafe has invented something he calls Breathe-Easy Banana Bread with a secret ingredient he won't reveal. I'm pretty sure it's just ginger, but he made her sign a non-disclosure agreement."

"An actual NDA?" I rescued the coffee cups before Parker's enthusiastic gesturing could topple them.

"Written on a napkin, but they had Cole witness it." He started unpacking the basket and then glanced at the phone. "Oh, are you deep in conversation? Did I interrupt something?"

"Hello, Parker." Mom's voice carried through the speaker, colored with faint amusement. "Still running that lovely blog?"

"Still telling Blue Harbor's stories." Parker's grin widened. "Speaking of which, did Holden tell you about our Chicago coverage plans?"

I shot him a warning glance that he cheerfully ignored.

"Chicago?" It didn't get past Mom. "What's happening in Chicago?"

"Nothing,"

I'd barely spoken the word when Parker piped up again. "Holden's going to support Wade at a memorial service."

Everyone was suddenly silent. I waited for protests about responsibilities and priorities and carefully worded suggestions that someone else could go instead.

"When?" Mom's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Next week." I sank into a kitchen chair, suddenly exhausted. "It's important to Wade, and I want to be there, but with Grandpa's care, I don't think—"

"Which is precisely why Cole and I are staying here." Parker interrupted me while he pulled out what appeared to be three different types of bread. I'd turned his offer down once, but I knew he was stubborn. "Maria's given us the complete care instructions, and we've got backup plans for our backup plans. My parents will come to the rescue if needed."

"Parker." Mom spoke with that particular note of authority she'd perfected in years of corporate negotiations. "Tell me about these plans."

I listened in amazement for the next several minutes as Parker outlined a care schedule that would have impressed a military strategist. He covered everything—medication timing, oxygen tank delivery, emergency contacts, and even shared a color-coded chart of who would be on call for special treats.

"Mrs. Peterson's bringing her famous chicken soup on Tuesday," he explained. "On Wednesday, Tom and Maya will check in. They're swinging by as a side loop to their park patrol. It's an extra forty-five minutes, but what the heck? And then Sarah's worked with Rafe to plan a week's worth of specially designed baked goods."

"All this so I can go to Chicago?"

"All this because you've spent months caring for everyone else." Parker grinned from ear to ear. "Let us take care of things here while you support Wade. You taught us how, after all."

Mom cleared her throat. "He's right, sweetheart. Your father and I haven't always understood your choices, but seeing how you've handled everything these past months..." She paused. "You've shown us what real care is like. Maybe it's time we returned some of that support."

Grandpa reached across the table to grip my hand. His fingers were warm and steady. "Belle used to say that love isn't a finite resource. It multiplies when you share it."

I shook my head. "Did she really say that, or are you making up Gran quotes again?"

"Does it matter?" His eyes twinkled. "The point stands. You can't pour from an empty cup, Match. Let people help fill yours for a change."

Parker started arranging bread slices on plates with suspicious precision. "Sarah sent her new lavender chamomile tea blend. Says it promotes clarity of thought and acceptance of the obvious."

"Gran used to say the only thing tea promoted was a good excuse to sit down and think."

"Exactly." Parker's eyes twinkled as he pushed a plate toward me. "And when was Isabella Harlow ever wrong about taking time to consider things properly?"

***

Mom's newfound support and Parker's meticulous planning carried me through the afternoon with a lighter, happier step. As the light shifted from afternoon gold to evening blue, my thoughts turned to Wade.

When I found him in his cabin's kitchen, he stood frozen before his Chicago Fire Department uniform, laid out on the table like one of Gran's unfinished paintings. The dress blues looked almost black in the fading light, gold buttons catching the lamp's glow.

"I haven't worn it since—" His voice caught. "It might not even fit anymore."

I moved behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Then we'll get it altered, or you can wear something else. No one's going to care about the uniform. They're interested in the man inside it."

He leaned back against me, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "You're really coming?"

"Try to stop me." I pressed my lips to the spot where his neck met his shoulder. "Parker and Cole are taking the Grandpa shift. Mom's supporting the idea. I think the apocalypse might be imminent."

A rough laugh escaped him. "The world must be ending if Margaret Harlow admitted she was wrong about something."

"Hey, that's my mother you're talking about." I smiled against his skin. "Even if you're absolutely right."

He turned in my arms. "I'm not good at accepting help."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

The snarky comment earned me a gentle hip check. "Smart ass."

"You love it."

The word slipped out before I could catch it. We had yet to use the four-letter word around each other. Fortunately, instead of tensing up or pulling away, Wade tightened his hands on my waist.

"Yeah, I do."

The kitchen suddenly shrank around us to a tremendously intimate space. I started to speak, but he pressed a finger to my lips.

"Let me finish my thought." Wade's voice was rough but steady. "I'm not good at accepting help. I'm worse at accepting..." He swallowed hard. "Accepting love. But you make me want to try."

I kissed his fingertip, then gently moved his hand. "Good thing I'm persistent."

"Stubborn is the word Tom uses."

"Tom needs to stop gossiping with Sarah." I nodded toward his dress uniform. "Want to try it on? I promise not to take pictures."

He snorted. "Like you could resist using that second set of eyes."

"Hey, I only document beautiful things."

"Holden..." The tone was a warning shot, but I pressed on.

"You are, you know. That first day on the beach, I instantly knew you were the most handsome man I'd ever seen." I traced the line of his jaw. "You look even better when you're being grumpy about compliments."

He caught my hand, kissing my palm and making my skin tingle. "Help me with these buttons? They're different from the ranger uniform."

The dress blues fit perfectly. Wade's discipline extended to maintaining his fitness routine even through the worst of his PTSD. Seeing him in his Chicago FD formal wear, I bit my lip. The uniform represented everything he'd survived and everything he still carried with him.

"You know what Parker said to me this morning?" My hands settled on his shoulders, steadying us both. The familiar shape of him beneath unfamiliar fabric grounded me. "He said I taught them how to care for Grandpa, but that's not true. You taught me first."

Wade's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You showed me how to balance caring while respecting someone's autonomy. I learned from you how to support without smothering." I met his eyes as we stared at the uniform in the mirror. "I watched how you handled lost hikers by giving them the tools to find their way while honoring their journey. It helped me figure out how to help Grandpa without taking over his life."

"You mean I got pissed off and told you to back off. That's different."

"Is it?" I wrapped my arms around him from behind, watching our reflection. "You've taught me about strength and vulnerability since that first morning on the beach. Maybe it's time I returned the favor."

He leaned back against me, a solid weight that somehow made me feel stronger. "I hate that you'll see me like this. In Chicago. When I'm not..."

"Not what? Not the strong, silent ranger? Not the calm voice of reason?" I tightened my hold. "Wade, I fell for all of you, including the parts that shake and break and need piecing back together."

His hands covered mine where they rested on his chest. His heart pounded through the thick material of his dress uniform—steady, alive, fighting through the fear.

"Sarah's planning to send snacks for our trip. Rafe's invented something called Courage Cookies that I'm pretty sure are just regular chocolate chip with extra vanilla."

A hearty laugh rumbled through Wade's chest. "That woman needs a hobby."

"Pretty sure we are her hobby. She's got the whole town invested in our story now."

"Christ." He turned in my arms. "Should we be worried?"

"Probably. I heard they're debating whether to classify us as enemies-to-lovers or grumpy-sunshine."

"Those are real categories?"

"For someone who catalogs every plant species in the park, you're charmingly naive about how Blue Harbor categorizes its love stories." I reached up to straighten his collar. "The marina's book club has a whole system. With subcategories. And footnotes."

"And we're in it?"

"Featured entry. Sarah's very proud."

He groaned. "This town is out of its mind."

"Says the man who built a special trail just so Mr. Nolan could keep walking his dog after his hip surgery. Tom told me about it."

"That was basic trail maintenance."

"In the shape of a figure-eight so he could rest at the halfway point without feeling like he was turning back?" I raised an eyebrow. "Face it, Ranger Grumpy. You're part of this absurd little town now."

"Yeah." His voice softened. "Guess I am."

Looking at him in his dress blues, with vulnerability and strength warring in his eyes, I understood something Gran used to say about art: Sometimes the most powerful pieces aren't the perfect ones, but the ones that show their history in every brushstroke.

I squeezed Wade. "We should practice."

"Practice what?"

"The memorial service. You said you have to speak." He nodded. "So practice with me. Right here, right now."

"Holden..."

"Please?" I took his hand. "Let me be your first audience. No pressure and no judgment. It's just me listening."

He stared at our joined hands for a long moment. Finally, he squeezed my fingers and began to speak. "Jenkins had three kids..."