Page 21 of The Fire Between Us

"I'm not used to that," I admit quietly.

"Where were you before Cedar Falls?" he asks. "If you don't mind me asking."

I hesitate. I've been so careful not to share details of my past, my journey. But there's something about Max—the way he risked himself for me, the genuine concern in his eyes—that makes me want to lower my guard just a little.

"A few smaller towns,” I say. "We've been... moving around."

Max nods, not pushing for more, but I suddenly want to give him something real, some piece of truth.

"I left my ex," I continue, my voice dropping. "Derek. He wasn't... he wasn't good for us. It started with screaming and controlling behavior, then escalated to slapping me around. The night I left, he was drunk and raised his fist near Amelia's crib. I grabbed her and ran."

Understanding dawns in Max's eyes, but there's no pity—just a quiet, controlled anger that isn't directed at me. "And you've been on the move since then?"

"Three towns in five months," I confirm. "Cedar Falls is stop number four."

"Are you planning to keep moving?" he asks, the question casual but his eyes intent.

I hesitate again. "I don't know. This was supposed to be temporary, just another stop. But..."

"But?"

"But Amelia seems happy here," I say, which is true, but not the whole truth. The whole truth includes the way the town has welcomed us, how Mrs. Gunderson has embraced Amelia, how Lou gave me a chance without questions. And it includes the firefighter sitting beside my hospital bed, who came looking for me when he didn't have to.

"Cedar Falls has that effect on people," Max says with a small smile. "It grows on you."

"Is that what happened to you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"I ended up here when I was younger. Ran away from home in Ridgefield, about sixty miles south."

"Fifteen, right?" I ask him, remembering him saying he was that age when he arrived in Cedar Falls. "That's so young."

Max is quiet for a moment, seeming to debate with himself. Then he sighs and leans back in his chair.

"Old enough to know I couldn't take another beating," he finally says. "My father was... well, he had a fondness for using his fists when he'd been drinking. Which was most days."

The confession hits me hard, resonating with my own experiences in a way I hadn't expected. "I'm sorry," I say softly. "That must have been terrible."

"It was what it was," he shrugs, his casual tone belied by the tension in his jaw. "Got on a bus with about forty dollars to my name and a backpack of clothes. Ended up here by chance—bus stopped for a lunch break and I just... didn't get back on. Slept wherever I could find—parks, abandoned buildings, behind the grocery store when it rained."

"How did you survive?" I ask, imagining a teenage Max, alone and vulnerable.

A small, genuine smile appears. "I was hanging around the wrong crowd, getting into minor trouble—nothing serious, but heading that way. One night, we were drinking in the park after hours, and the cops showed up. Everyone scattered, but I twisted my ankle jumping a fence. Brock was already Chief then, doing a ride-along with the cops as part of some community program. Instead of letting them arrest me, he took me to the station—the fire station, not the police station."

Max's voice has taken on a reminiscent quality, like he's seeing it all again. "He sat me down, gave me food, and told me I had two choices: keep spiraling until I ended up just like my old man, or get my act together and make something of myself. Said I could sleep on the station couch that night, and in the morning, we'd figure out the next steps."

"And you chose option two," I say, already knowing the answer.

"Not right away," Max admits. "Told him to go to hell, actually. But the next morning, when I tried to sneak out before sunrise, he was waiting. Had breakfast ready and a proposition—I could work odd jobs around the station in exchange for a cot in the storage room and meals. Best offer I'd had in months."

"He sounds like a good man," I observe.

Max nods. "Changed my life. Gave me stability, structure, a way forward. When I was eighteen, he sponsored me for the fire academy. The guys at the station became the family I never had."

I absorb his story, struck by the parallels to my own journey—the escape from violence, the uncertainty, the search for safety and meaning. The difference is that Max found his place, his purpose. I'm still searching.

"Thank you for telling me that," I say sincerely. "For trusting me with it."

"Fair exchange," he replies with a small smile. "You trusted me with a piece of your story. And you know," Max continues, his tone shifting to something more self-deprecating, "most people around here see me as some kind of perpetual playboy. Always ready for a good time, never serious about anything or anyone."

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