Chapter Ten #2
His father was lying in a hospital bed giving emotional architecture advice.
This week had become impossible.
Tom released his hand.
“Go open the door.”
Crew hesitated.
“What if she says no?”
Tom looked at him.
“Then you respect it. That’s how doors work.”
Crew let out a rough laugh.
Barely.
“Fine.”
“Also tell Mrs. Bell to stop texting everyone I died.”
Crew frowned. “She’s doing what?”
“My phone has buzzed twelve times. I am apparently either gone or recovering beautifully depending on who got the message.”
Crew pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Captain,” Tom said.
Crew lowered his hand.
“Man,” Tom corrected.
Crew stood still.
Then nodded.
He found Marin near the vending machines, not sitting. Of course not. Marin did not sit when fear needed somewhere to go. She stood with her arms folded, staring at a machine full of chips like it had personally failed the food pyramid.
Mrs. Bell was on a plastic chair nearby, texting aggressively.
Crew approached Marin first.
She looked up fast.
“How is he?”
“Alert. Complaining. They’re running tests.”
Her breath left in a quiet rush.
“Good.”
“Dad wants you back there.”
Her face changed.
Not relief.
Something more fragile.
“Oh.”
Crew kept his hands at his sides.
“I do too,” he said. “If you want to come.”
There.
Door.
Not claim.
Not obligation.
Marin looked down the hallway.
Then at Mrs. Bell.
Then back at him.
For one second, the hospital noise filled the space where her answer should go.
“Yes,” she said.
One word.
It hit harder than it should have.
Crew nodded and turned toward the doors.
Marin followed.
Not beside him at first.
Half a step behind.
By the time they reached Tom’s curtain, she was beside him.
Tom saw them enter together and looked far too pleased for a man attached to monitors.
“Marin Webb,” he said. “Finally someone competent.”
Marin’s face shifted into stern affection so quickly Crew almost had to look away.
“You scared everyone.”
Tom lifted one hand. “A hobby in retirement.”
“Bad hobby.”
“I also garden.”
“Plants can’t call ambulances.”
“Mrs. Bell can.”
“She called four people before EMS finished taking your vitals.”
Tom sighed. “She’s efficient.”
Marin moved to the side of the bed and touched his arm.
Carefully.
Not like glass.
Not like he was weak.
Like he mattered.
“How are you feeling?”
“Annoyed.”
“Good. Any chest pain?”
“No.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Dizziness now?”
“Only from being interrogated by women.”
Marin narrowed her eyes.
Tom smiled.
Crew stood at the foot of the bed, watching them.
Something in his chest ached.
This was what he had lost.
Not just Marin.
Not just home.
The version of life where the people he loved occupied the same room and knew how to care for each other without explanation.
He had convinced himself leaving simplified things.
It had split him into pieces.
A doctor came in ten minutes later.
Dr. Patel introduced herself and explained what they knew so far.
Tom’s EKG did not show an acute heart attack.
His initial vitals had been unstable but improving.
They were still waiting on labs, checking for dehydration, electrolyte issues, possible rhythm problems, and medication interactions.
Given his age, episode, and recent fatigue, they wanted to monitor him and likely keep him overnight for observation.
Overnight.
Crew’s stomach dropped.
Tom protested immediately.
“I can observe myself at home.”
Dr. Patel smiled in a way that suggested she had met stubborn men before breakfast.
“I’m sure you can. We’re still going to do it here.”
Marin made a quiet sound of approval.
Tom pointed at her. “No betrayal from you.”
“You collapsed.”
“Gravity assisted.”
“Retire that phrase.”
Crew almost smiled.
Almost.
Dr. Patel looked at him.
“You’re his son?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll keep you updated. For now, he’s stable. That’s the important thing.”
Stable.
Crew held on to that word like a rail.
“Thank you.”
After the doctor left, Tom muttered about hospitals making people worse through boredom. Marin adjusted his blanket because he would not admit he was cold. Crew texted Eddie, Mrs. Paxton, and the team that Tom was stable and being observed overnight.
Then he texted the group chat:
Crew: Dad is stable. Observation overnight. Please no public posts.
Replies came fast.
Wilder: No posts. Sending love. Quietly.
Sutton: We’re here if needed.
Frankie: I am sitting on my hands emotionally and digitally.
Cooper: Tell him we’re thinking of him.
Beck: glad he’s stable
Junie: snacks can be delivered quietly
Milo: Anything you need.
Crew stared at that.
Anything you need.
He was not good at needing.
Tonight had made that obvious.
Marin stood on the other side of the bed, rubbing one hand over Tom’s wrist in slow circles while Tom pretended not to enjoy it.
Crew looked at her.
Maybe needing was not the same as taking.
Maybe asking was not the same as trapping someone.
Maybe staying started by letting someone stand beside him without trying to earn or refuse it.
Tom dozed around nine thirty.
The nurse dimmed the lights.
Marin and Crew stepped into the hallway together.
The shift from the curtained room to the hall felt too abrupt. Too bright. Too exposed.
Crew leaned against the wall.
For the first time all night, the adrenaline dropped.
Hard.
His knees felt unreliable.
Marin saw it immediately.
“Sit.”
“I’m okay.”
“Sit, Crew.”
He sat in the nearest chair because apparently his body trusted her more than it trusted him.
Marin sat one chair away.
Not next to him.
One chair between.
A respectful gap made of hospital vinyl.
Crew stared at his hands.
They were steady now.
That seemed wrong.
“They’re keeping him overnight,” he said.
“Yes.”
“He hates that.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that I’m relieved.”
“That’s normal.”
He looked at her.
She looked tired.
So tired.
Her hair had loosened around her face. There was still a faint streak of flour on her sleeve. Her eyes were red around the edges, but she was sitting straight because Marin Webb would apparently posture at death itself if given the chance.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked away.
“For what part?”
All of it.
Every part.
The livestream. The hallway. The secret. The hospital. The bakery. Three years. The fact that he wanted her in the chair beside him and had no right to ask her to move closer.
“For tonight.”
She leaned back against the chair.
“You did not cause your father to collapse.”
“No.”
“And you did not make me come.”
“No.”
“And you did not make the hospital keep him overnight.”
“No.”
“So stop collecting blame like a hobby.”
His mouth moved despite everything.
“That’s a very specific hobby.”
“You seem committed.”
Crew looked back at his hands.
Silence settled.
Then Marin said, “What were you going to tell me?”
His body went cold.
The hallway seemed to lengthen.
He should have known she would not forget.
Marin forgot nothing.
He looked at her.
The secret sat between them like a third person.
Three years old.
Not dramatic in the way the internet would want.
Not scandalous.
Just painful.
Human.
Cowardly.
He could tell her here, under fluorescent hospital lights, while his father slept behind a curtain and the roof fund sat at one hundred percent because she had spent herself in front of strangers.
Or he could wait.
Waiting had already cost them enough.
Crew took a breath.
“My dad got sick before I left.”
Marin’s face changed.
“What?”
Crew looked down.
“Not like now. Not exactly. It was the first time the doctors found the blood pressure issue. Some fatigue. Some tests. Mom was gone by then. Dad downplayed it, obviously.”
“Crew.”
“I found out two weeks before I left for school.” His throat tightened. “I didn’t tell you.”
Marin stared at him.
“I knew if I told you, you would stay close. You would help. You would make it easier and harder at the same time.”
Her eyes filled with something he could not bear to name.
“I thought I had to choose,” he said. “Hockey or home. Dad or you. Leaving or failing everyone in person. And I was so scared that if you knew how scared I was, you’d talk me into being honest.”
Marin’s mouth parted slightly.
Not shock.
Hurt.
Crew forced himself to continue.
“Then my coach called. Scholarship paperwork. Training schedule. Everything started moving. Dad kept saying he was fine. Everyone kept saying this was my chance. And you were so proud of me.”
His voice broke on that.
He hated it.
But he did not stop.
“I couldn’t stand the idea of becoming one more thing you had to carry.”
Marin’s eyes flashed.
“So you chose for me.”
“Yes.”
The word was brutal.
Necessary.
“I told myself I was protecting you from getting stuck here with my family problems. From watching me fall apart. From waiting for me to figure out whether I was a coward or a captain.”
He laughed once, empty.
“Turns out I was both.”
Marin did not smile.
Good.
It was not funny.
“I left,” he said. “And every day I didn’t call made calling harder. Then Dad stabilized. I was busy. You were hurt. I knew you were hurt. And I thought if I called then, I’d only reopen it because I still didn’t know how to come home.”
Marin’s face had gone pale.
Crew’s hands curled together.
“I am not telling you this as an excuse.”
“Good,” she said.
The word cut clean.
He nodded.
“I’m telling you because you asked. And because you were right. I didn’t trust you with the truth.”
Silence.
Hospital noises filled it.
A monitor beeped behind the curtain. A nurse laughed softly at the desk. Somewhere, a cart rolled over a threshold.
Marin stared at the floor.
Crew did not reach for her.
Did not say her name.
Did not apologize again.
Not yet.
There was such a thing as using apology to beg for comfort.
He had done enough taking.
Finally, Marin stood.
Crew’s chest tightened.
She turned toward him.
Her voice was quiet.
“You’re right.”
He looked up.
“You don’t get to make that beautiful.”
The words hit exactly where they had before.
This time deeper.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you instead of angry.”
“I know.”