13. The Banquet #2
Cleanup begins in pockets. Someone folds tablecloths. Someone else starts stacking chairs. The AV student crouches by the projector cart and wraps the cord. The smell of barbecue is fading now, tucked into the trash bags and the memory of the room.
Maren stands and collects the empty chip bowls. Reese rises too, unasked, and starts gathering cups that still hold a little coffee. They move in parallel lines, a pattern so familiar it catches.
“Thanks,” Maren says when they reach the buffet table at the same moment. “I thought I would be here all night.”
“You would have been,” Reese says, light but true. “You always finish the job.”
Maren huffs a small laugh. “Someone has to.” She lifts a crock pot lid and checks the level, then clicks the dial to warm. “I promised Coach I would send leftovers home with him.”
“He will pretend to protest,” Reese says, “and then he will eat sloppy joes for breakfast.”
They both smile at the same mental picture. It lands in the space between them and stays there.
A few alumni start to say goodnight. Jules squeezes Maren’s hand and promises to text tomorrow.
The janitor rolls in a large garbage can and gives Maren a nod that reads you know what you are doing.
She nods back. Reese collects a stray strawberry from under a chair and tosses it into the trash. It lands with a soft thud.
The room is growing quieter. The decorations look tired now. The cardboard trident leans a little farther against the podium, its shine caught in a thin line of pale gold.
Reese ties off a trash bag and sets it by the door. When she turns, Maren is stacking plates, careful and quick, eyes on her hands. They fall into step again without speaking. Chairs scrape. Tape peels. Paper bubbles come down in uneven stacks.
“Guess you really did stay,” Reese says finally. Her voice is even. She keeps her hands busy with the tape roll.
Maren places another stack of plates into the box. “Guess you really did leave.”
Reese looks at her for that. The words are soft. They do not accuse. They still land.
“Didn’t plan to,” Reese says.
“Didn’t plan to wait,” Maren answers.
Air moves through the open doors and touches the back of Maren’s neck.
She sets the box down and wipes her palms on her dress.
The smell of chlorine comes in faint from the pool, the kind that only people who know it can catch.
For a moment, it feels like morning again.
Like a door is about to open on the far side of the deck, and everything is possible.
Reese steps closer, not quite into Maren’s space, close enough to see the tiny scar by her left eyebrow. “I didn’t plan most of it,” she says. “It does not mean it didn’t matter.”
Maren keeps her gaze on the trident, so she does not have to meet Reese’s eyes. “I know.” She picks up two centerpieces and carries them to the box marked to ‘Return to theater.’ “Knowing and living with it are not the same thing.”
They work again. It is easier to move than to stand still. Reese unscrews the mic stand while Maren traces the extension cord back to the wall and unplugs it. The lights shift as the AV student takes another bank down.
“You could have told me you were going to stay in North Carolina,” Maren says, almost conversational. “A call would have helped.”
“I could have,” Reese says. “I did not. I am sorry.”
Maren nods once. The honesty is a clean line across the floor. “Thank you.”
A beat passes. A balloon drifts down from the hoop and skims the floor. Reese stabs it lightly with the fork she is holding and jumps at the soft pop, then laughs at herself. Maren looks over, and the laugh catches her too, small and reluctant.
“Still brave,” Reese says. “Still efficient.”
“Still ridiculous,” Maren says. “Who cleans up with a fork?”
“I do.” Reese holds up the fork like a trophy. “Multi-tool.”
They let the easy moment sit. It is not enough to fix anything. It is enough to keep going, though.
The janitor switches off a row of lights near the back. The gym drops into a cooler blue. The cardboard trident shines and then dims. Voices in the hallway fade as the last families leave.
“We should finish up,” Maren says.
“Yeah.” Reese takes the box of centerpieces from the table. “Where does this go?”
“Storage closet by the stage,” Maren says. “Top shelf.”
Reese carries the box across the gym, balance steady. Maren watches the way she moves, the way she has always moved, with the same loose confidence that used to make diving boards look like they were built for her. She feels the old ache and lets it pass through her. One, two, three, four.
Reese returns, and they fold the final table together. The metal legs click and lock. Their fingers brush at the final fold. It is a small static shock, and it makes them both flinch.
“Sorry,” Reese says.
“It is fine,” Maren says. “I am just tired.”
“Me too.”
They stand for a second with the folded table between them. The moment tilts toward something and then evens out again.
“Thank you for helping,” Maren says. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” Reese lifts her chin toward the door. “He will like that the gym looks clean in the morning.”
“He will.” Maren gathers the last trash bag and knots it. “He always did.”
Silence settles. The kind that has a current under it.
Reese finds the banner from the wall and smooths it over her arm. The gold letters catch the low light. Thank You, Coach Hensley. She looks at it for a long moment, then at Maren.
“You are good at this,” she says. “All of it.”
“It is just a gym,” Maren says softly. “It is just a room that needs to be reset.”
Reese studies her face. “You know that is not what I mean.”
Maren lifts the trash bag to her shoulder. “I know.”
They carry the last of the cleanup to the doorway. The hallway is quiet. The pool beyond it breathes in its own way, air warm and damp, filters running steady.
At the threshold, Reese pauses. “I will be back in town for a few more days,” she says. “If you need anything moved or lifted or carried, I am good at being useful.”
Maren holds her gaze. “I will let you know.”
A beat. Then another.
“Goodnight, Clarke,” Reese says.
“Goodnight,” Maren answers.
Reese steps into the hallway and walks toward the exit, the banner still over her arm. Maren stays in the doorway and watches her go until the blue streamers settle again. She turns back to the quiet gym, checks the podium once more, and straightens one last chair that no one will notice.
Not everything has to change.