I shake my head, trying to find the words to speak around the thickness in my throat. But there’s nothing to say, and this feeling in my chest? I needed to hear that. I never realized I needed someone to say it out loud. “Thank you.” I grip her hips. “I spent a lot of months getting through each day by pretending everything was normal. It was the only way I knew how to cope.”

“It’s fine to pretend that things are okay if that’s what it takes to get through. And it’s fine to sometimes pretend with some people that you’re okay, even when you’re not. But you need to have people in your life you can talk to. People you can confide in when you’re not okay. People you trust to see you that vulnerable.”

“Are you volunteering to see my ugly insides?”

She puts her hands on either side of my head and leans forward, her dark hair falling like a curtain around us. “Yes, Carter. I’m a nurse,” she says, smiling softly. “Ugly insides are my specialty.”

Carter

Teagan and I fell asleep after two. For the first time in too long, I didn’t have a single nightmare. I slept hard, but habit has me up at five.

I tuck the blankets around Teagan, pull on my jeans and a T-shirt, and head downstairs. I don’t want to wake her up, and I’m dying for a strong cup of coffee.

The dining room is quiet, but the kitchen staff has set out some pastries, fruit, a selection of teas, a carafe of coffee, and . . . I sniff. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I smell bacon.

“Good morning, sir,” a young blonde says, stepping out of the kitchen. “May I get you some hot breakfast? We have bacon, scrambled eggs, and French toast this morning, in addition to the offerings on the buffet, of course.”

I blame my upbringing, but when I’m short on sleep, I don’t just crave coffee to get moving. I crave bacon. Or at least I used to, before my appetite abandoned me.

I grin at the server. “Bacon and eggs sound great, thank you.” I take a seat at one of the white-clothed tables, sip my coffee, and scroll through emails on my phone as she retrieves my meal. Brayden sent out third-quarter Jackson Brews P&L reports—which I’ll open and skim only enough to say I did and send back with my approval. Beth sent me an email with a link to a story about a firefighter who lost his father (also a firefighter) with a note about it.

I’ve been sitting on this for a month, waiting for the right time to give it to you. It’s a story of grief, guilt, and forgiveness. Thought of you. Hope you’re well.

My chest goes tight. She’s only tiptoed around the subject of the warehouse fire before, but this is definitely less of a tiptoe and more of her taking my hand and urging me to take a full step. A month ago, it would’ve pissed me off and I’d have deleted it, but now I think I might be ready. I flag it for myself to read later.