It sparked a citywide conversation—about foster care, about what happened to kids when they aged out, about the people the system forgot.
Maya had cried when she read it. Then she began volunteering with a nonprofit that assisted aged-out foster youth in finding housing and employment. Because that’s who she was. She couldn’t just feel something—she had to do something about it.
Two months of proving I meant it when I said I'd stay.
Today, I was going to prove it permanently.
The ring sat in my pocket like a live grenade.
I'd checked it eleven times in the last hour. Twelve. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and every time I reached into my jacket, Brian's grin got wider.
"You're going to wear a hole in your pants," he said from across the apparatus bay.
"Shut up."
"Seriously, you've checked that pocket like fifty times. It's still there. Diamonds don't evaporate, man."
"Shut up."
Brian leaned against the engine, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. "You nervous?"
I didn't answer. Of course, I was nervous. I was about to propose to a woman in front of four hundred people.
Garrett appeared beside Brian, adjusting his dress uniform collar. He looked about as comfortable as I felt, which was to say not at all. "Car's ready. Principal Hendricks texted. Assembly starts in forty minutes."
Zoe had helped me plan this for weeks. She helped me think about what to say, when to say it, how to say it without sounding like a Hallmark card. She'd listened to my speech four times and told me it was "fine, I guess" in a tone that meant she approved.
Then she'd spent an hour helping me pick out the ring, pointing at the simple solitaire and saying, "That one. Mom doesn't like flashy."
She was right. Maya didn't like flashy. Maya liked real.
I hoped this was real enough.
"Hey." Brian's voice dropped, serious now. "You good?"
I looked at him. My best friend. The guy who'd watched me spiral through meaningless hookups for three years, who'd called me out when I was being an idiot, who'd gone to Maya's classroom and told her the truth when I couldn't.
"I'm good," I said. And I meant it. "I'm terrified. But I'm good."
Brian nodded. Clapped my shoulder once. "Then let's go get your girl."
P.S. 147's temporary location was a converted community center three blocks from the burned-out shell of the original building. Different walls, different hallways, the same fluorescent lights and alphabet posters, and that particular smell of chalk dust and hand sanitizer that meant school.
The auditorium was packed by the time we arrived. Students, teachers, parents. Engine 295 had been invited weeks ago to do a fire safety assembly.
After what happened, the district wanted every school in Queens to update its training. Escape routes. Stop-drop-and-roll refreshers. What to do if you smell smoke. The kind of practical knowledge that might save a kid's life someday.
We'd done the full program. Brian and Garrett had demonstrated the equipment. Captain Rodriguez had talked about emergency procedures. I'd answered questions fromfourth-graders who wanted to know if fire was hot (yes) and if I'd ever rescued a cat from a tree (twice, and one of them bit me).
I’d spoken to Captain Rodriguez and Principal Hendricks weeks earlier, when Engine 295 was invited to speak. I asked if I could add something at the end. Something personal.
Rodriguez had raised an eyebrow. Hendricks had burst into tears and immediately said yes.
Now the educational portion was over, and I was waiting behind the stage curtain, heart slamming against my ribs.
From my position, I could see Maya in the front row.
She looked confused. Beautiful—but confused.
