Page 178 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

But then—her hand slides into mine.

Warm.

Steady.

Grounding.

She doesn’t pull back.

She doesn’t look scared.

She squeezes once.

And I know.

This isn’t just about art.

This is about stepping forward.

For us.

For the life I want.

So I step out of the limo.

The flashes explode.

Voices keep calling out.

I ignore all of it and turn back, holding my hand out to her.

For a heartbeat, everything slows.

She places her hand in mine.

And when our fingers lace together, the noise fades.

The cameras fade.

The city fades.

She steps out beside me, sunlight yellow against black pavement, and the crowd actually gasps.

She’s stunning.

She’s fearless.

She’s here.

I straighten, draw her slightly closer, and walk forward.

Not as a myth.

Not as a reclusive mountain artist.

But as a man in love.

Whatever happens inside those doors—whatever critics say, whatever headlines spin—none of it matters more than this.