Chapter Nine #3
Crew applauded solemnly.
“Best advice I’ve heard all week.”
Mason nodded. “My mom says grown-ups need reminders.”
“She’s right.”
Then came Frankie’s approved pun.
Talia handed Crew a printed card.
Crew read it.
Closed his eyes.
Looked at me.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“For the roof?”
“For the roof.”
He turned to the camera, patriotic stars bouncing on his head, Captain Problem apron tied around his waist, dignity visibly leaving his body.
In the flattest voice imaginable, he read:
“When life gives you leaks, make cupcakes.”
The room howled.
The comments howled.
I laughed so hard I had to grip the table.
Crew looked at me mid-laughter and lost his straight face completely.
He laughed too.
The card dropped to the table.
The stars bobbed wildly.
Talia gasped, “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened to public service.”
The livestream should have ended there.
On a high.
On laughter.
On the roof saved and Captain Problem humiliated for a noble cause.
But the internet, as usual, had one final knife.
Talia’s smile faded while reading the comments.
I saw it.
Crew saw it too.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head quickly.
“Nothing. We’re wrapping.”
“Talia.”
She looked at me.
I knew that look.
Protective.
Too late.
Crew leaned toward the screen.
I did too.
A comment had risen fast.
From the same anonymous account as before.
@truthbet_17: Cute show. Ask him why he really left.
The room noise blurred.
The laughter disappeared.
Crew went very still beside me.
The comment sat there.
Ugly.
Precise.
Alive.
Talia moved fast, deleting it.
But deletion did not erase the second we had all seen it.
The livestream camera was still on.
The comments kept moving.
The room kept breathing.
I did not.
Crew’s face changed in a way that took me right back to the bakery last night.
Grief.
Fear.
Truth.
He looked at me.
Not the camera.
Not Talia.
Me.
And for one second, I knew.
There was more.
More than he had said.
More than fear.
More than drowning.
More than leaving because he thought coming home would end him.
There was a reason he had not told me.
A real one.
A hidden one.
My heartbeat turned slow and heavy.
I faced the camera because if I did not, I would fall apart in front of everyone.
“We’re ending there,” I said, voice bright enough to cut. “Honeybrook, you saved the roof. Thank you for showing up. Thank you for keeping it kind. Thank you for proving this town can still do something good when it stops being weird for five consecutive minutes.”
The comments filled with love.
Crew did not move.
Talia reached for the button.
I looked into the camera.
“For the roof,” I said.
Crew’s voice came beside me, rougher than before.
“Obviously.”
Talia ended the stream.
The red light went off.
The room erupted again, but it felt far away now.
Mrs. Paxton hugged Eddie. Mason waved his internet safety sheet. Someone started chanting “roof, roof, roof” like a confused dog pound.
I turned away from all of it and walked toward the hallway.
Fast.
Not running.
Never running.
Running would mean the comment had hit.
The hallway was cooler.
Quieter.
I made it ten steps before Crew’s voice followed me.
“Marin.”
I stopped.
Of course I stopped.
Stupid, stupid heart.
I turned.
He stood at the end of the hallway, still wearing the apron and the ridiculous star headband, but nothing about him was funny now.
His eyes were wrecked.
I folded my arms.
“Why did that comment bother you?”
He swallowed.
The hallway between us felt longer than three years.
“Because it wasn’t wrong.”
I went cold.
“What does that mean?”
He took one step closer.
Then stopped.
Like he remembered he had no right.
“There’s something I should have told you.”
My chest tightened so sharply it hurt.
“When?”
His answer came quietly.
“Three years ago.”
The words landed like the first drip from a ceiling.
Small.
Then catastrophic.
Behind us, the main room cheered over a roof we had saved.
In front of me stood the man who had broken my heart and apparently kept a piece of the story for himself.
I lifted my chin.
“Then say it now.”
Crew’s face went pale.
He opened his mouth.
And his phone rang.
Not buzzed.
Rang.
Sharp and loud in the hallway.
He looked down.
His father.
Every bit of anger in me froze.
Crew answered immediately.
“Dad?”
A pause.
Then Crew’s expression changed.
The color drained from his face.
“What hospital?”
My heart stopped.
The hallway disappeared.
Crew listened, one hand braced against the wall.
“I’m coming,” he said. “I’m coming now.”
He ended the call.
For one second, he just stood there.
Not captain.
Not problem.
Not ex.
Son.
Terrified son.
“What happened?” I asked.
His voice barely worked.
“Dad collapsed.”
Everything else fell away.
The comment.
The secret.
The livestream.
The roof.
Crew looked at me like he wanted to ask for something and did not know if he had the right.
He did not have to.
I was already moving.
“Keys,” I said.
He stared.
“Crew. Keys.”
He handed them to me.
His hand shook.
Mine closed over his.
Not romantic.
Not fake.
Not for the internet.
For this.
For him.
“Come on,” I said. “I’m driving.”