Chapter 12
Maya
I was letting myself be happy.
And it terrified me.
Shane stayed over most nights now. His toothbrush lived in the cup next to mine. His jacket hung on the coat rack by the door. His oversized FDNY coffee mug—brought from his apartment—sat in my cabinet like it had always belonged there.
Zoe set three places at the table without being asked. She didn’t make a big deal out of it. Didn’t even mention it. She just pulled out the extra plate, the extra fork, the extra napkin.
I kept waiting for it to fall apart.
For Shane to realize I was too much work. For Zoe to decide she didn’t want some man taking up space in our lives. For something to go wrong—because something always did.
But it didn't.
I woke up next to him, his arm heavy around my waist, his breath warm against my hair.
He kissed my forehead before his shift, like it was a habit already.
Zoe teased us both at breakfast, pretending to gag at any display of affection, but I caught the smile she tried to hide behind her cereal bowl.
This was what happy looked like. I'd almost forgotten.
I could get used to this.
And that was the dangerous part.
The warmth of him beside me. The way my apartment felt fuller now—less like a place I survived and more like a place I actually lived.
And that thought alone was enough to make my chest tight.
Because getting used to something meant needing it. And needing things meant risking losing them. I'd lost enough to know that.
But Shane was still here. Still showing up. Still choosing us—every day.
Maybe this time would be different.
Maybe I could finally let myself believe that.
Christmas came, and for the first time in thirteen years, I didn't dread it.
Every December before this one had been an exercise in damage control.
Budgeting for presents I couldn’t afford.
Watching Zoe’s face when she opened gifts that weren’t quite what she’d asked for.
Cooking a meal that was supposed to feel festive but mostly felt like just another thing I was doing alone.
This year, Shane showed up on Christmas Eve with a tree strapped to the roof of his truck.
"It was crooked," he said when I stared at him. "The lot was closing. They gave me a deal."
It was crooked. Zoe named it Charlie Brown and spent an hour decorating it with ornaments we'd had since she was three. Shane lifted her so she could put the star on top, and when she laughed—really laughed—the sound cracked something open in my chest.
On Christmas morning, he made pancakes shaped like candy canes. They looked more like deformed question marks, but Zoe ate four of them anyway.
"These are terrible," she announced, reaching for a fifth.
"You're welcome," Shane said.
Later, he drove us to the firehouse.
I'd been nervous. Meeting the crew felt like a test I hadn't studied for.
But Brian Torres pulled me into a hug before I could overthink it, and Captain Rodriguez's wife pressed a plate of food into my hands and told me I was too thin.
The station smelled like roasting meat and old coffee and something sweet someone had burned in the oven.
Zoe found her way to Garrett Stone, who was quiet in a way that seemed to put her at ease. I watched them from across the room, Garrett showing her something on his phone, Zoe actually engaging instead of retreating behind her earbuds.
Rodriguez's kids tore through the station like tiny tornadoes, shrieking and laughing and treating every firefighter like a personal jungle gym. His wife, Maria, caught my eye and smiled, the kind of smile that said welcome without needing words.
Shane's hand found the small of my back. "You okay?"
I nodded. I didn't trust my voice.
This was what family looked like. Not the family I’d grown up with—the one that had looked at my pregnant belly like a failure and my choices like a betrayal. This was something different. Chosen. Earned.
Brian cornered me near the coffee station. "He's different with you," he said, keeping his voice low. "Happier. More himself."
"I don't know what to say to that."
"You don't have to say anything." He shrugged. "Just don't break him, okay? He's not as tough as he looks."
I glanced across the room. Shane was helping Rodriguez's daughter hang a paper snowflake, crouching down to her level, listening to her instructions with complete seriousness.
"Neither am I," I said.
Brian nodded like that was exactly the right answer.
We stayed until dark. Zoe fell asleep in the truck on the way home, her head against the window, the faint smile still on her face. Shane carried her inside and tucked her into bed while I stood in the doorway, watching.
"Best Christmas ever," Zoe mumbled, already half-gone.
Shane looked at me. I looked at him.
She wasn't wrong.
The first day back from winter break, the teacher's lounge went quiet when I walked in.
Two weeks away from this building. Two weeks of Christmas mornings, firehouse dinners, and falling asleep on the couch with Shane’s arm around me while Zoe pretended to be disgusted. Two weeks of feeling like a person instead of a machine running on caffeine and obligation.
Now I was back. And so was the gossip.
It was the particular hush that meant people had been talking about me and weren’t quite fast enough to pretend they hadn’t.
I caught the tail end of whispers as I crossed to the coffee machine.
‘Shane Briggs.’
‘The dance.’
‘Did you see the photos on Facebook?’
Let them talk. I didn't care anymore.
Mrs. Patterson sat at her usual table, salad fork poised mid-air, watching me with that look she'd perfected over thirty years of teaching.
The one who said she was cataloging everything for later use.
I met her eyes and smiled, pleasant and unbothered, and had the satisfaction of watching her purse her lips and return to her lunch without a word.
Small victories mattered.
"Maya!"
Linda appeared at my elbow, coffee cup in hand, eyes bright with curiosity.
"You look different." She studied my face like I was one of her students' art projects. "I can't put my finger on it, but something's changed."
I poured my coffee, added creamer, and took my time.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're glowing." Linda leaned closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is it true? About the firefighter?"
I should have deflected. I should have given her a non-answer and escaped to my classroom.
Instead, I smiled. I didn’t even try to stop it.
"Maybe."
Linda's face lit up. "I knew it! Oh my god, Maya, that's amazing. He's gorgeous. And the way he showed up at the dance? For Zoe?" She clutched her coffee cup to her chest. "That's like, movie-level romantic."
"It was pretty great," I admitted.
"You deserve it." Linda squeezed my arm. "You really do. You've been running on fumes for years. It's nice to see you happy." She grinned. "It looks good on you."
She drifted back to her table, and I stood there with my coffee, letting the words sink in.
It looks good on you.
I caught my reflection in the microwave door. Same tired eyes. Same messy bun. Same face I'd been looking at for thirty years.
But Linda was right. Something was different.
I looked like someone who finally had something to look forward to.
Oral report day was always an adventure—for them and for me.
My students shuffled to the front of the class one by one, presenting their projects with varying degrees of enthusiasm and terror.
Marcus mumbled his way through a presentation on dinosaurs, reading directly from his notecards and never looking up.
James stumbled over his words but powered through a surprisingly thoughtful report on recycling.
Two girls did a joint presentation on Taylor Swift that technically didn’t meet the assignment requirements—but it was so passionate, I gave them full credit anyway.
Then Destiny stood up.
She was still wearing that hoodie with the broken zipper. The same one she'd worn every day this week. But something was different today. She stood straighter. Looked at the class instead of the floor.
“My project is on foster care,” she said. “On what happens to kids when they leave the system.”
The room went quiet. Even the fidgeters stopped fidgeting.
Destiny talked about statistics, how over twenty thousand kids aged out of the foster care system every year. How kids got bounced from home to home. How some foster families were good, and some weren’t—and there was no way to know which you’d get.
Her voice was steady, rehearsed, but I could hear the tremor underneath. This wasn't just research to her. This was her life, or the life she was afraid was coming.
She talked about what the system was supposed to do versus what it actually did.
How kids got bounced from home to home. How some foster families were good, and some weren't, and there was no way to know which you'd get.
How once you turned eighteen, you were on your own. No safety net. No second chances.
"A lot of people forget about them," Destiny said quietly. "After they age out. Like they just disappear."
The words hit me like a fist to the chest.
Tommy Vickers.
The memory came flooding back—sharp and sudden.
Ten years old, small for his age, flinching when adults moved too fast. The granola bars I kept in my desk for him, slipping them into his backpack when the other kids weren't looking. The way he started to trust me, just a little. The ghost of a smile when I told him his drawing was good.
Then, the bruises I saw at recess. The circular burns on his arms that he tried to hide under long sleeves. Cigarette burns.
I'll make sure you're okay, Tommy. I promise.
Destiny finished her report. The class applauded. I applauded too, my hands moving automatically, my mind nine years in the past.
"That was wonderful, Destiny," I heard myself say. "Really excellent work."
She ducked her head, almost smiling, and returned to her seat.