Chapter Two – Crew #2
We stand there a beat too long, the kind of silence that hums. Then she steps aside. “Fine. But if you fall, I’m not doing the paperwork.”
“Deal.”
The stairs groan as I climb up to the roofline. The view from the top punches the breath out of me: the curve of the cove, the glitter of the water, the bookstore sign swinging gently below. The tarp’s barely hanging on. One corner flaps like it’s signaling distress.
I start securing it, the rhythm coming back like muscle memory—hammer, nail, pull, breathe. Below, I can hear her moving inside, the faint chime of the bell as someone comes in, and her voice, low and warm, as she greets them.
It’s ridiculous how grounding that sound is.
When the last nail goes in, I sit back on my heels, flex my sore shoulder, and let the wind cool the sweat on my neck. For the first time in months, the ache feels earned instead of empty.
“Still alive up there?” she calls.
“Define ‘alive’.”
She laughs, and it rolls up through the salt air, settling right where the guilt used to live.
I climb down, boots hitting the porch, and she’s waiting with two mugs of coffee that smell infinitely better than mine.
“Truce?” she asks, offering one.
“Depends on the terms.”
“Terms are: you drink this, I stop pretending I don’t appreciate the help.”
“Fair trade.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder against the rail, watching the tide roll in. The coffee’s hot, the silence easy—almost.
She glances sideways. “So what’s the catch? You fixing roofs for every woman in town now?”
“Just the ones with literary merit.”
Her lips curve. “Smooth.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Football or flirting?”
“Both require good aim.”
That earns another laugh, and for a second, it feels like the years between us shrink down to nothing. The wind catches a loose strand of her hair, and without thinking, I reach out and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers brush her skin—soft, warm, real.
She goes still, eyes lifting to mine, and the air thickens.
One wrong move and we’re both going to regret it.
I drop my hand and step back just enough to breathe. “You should probably have someone look at the flashing before the next storm. A dozen people in town with deep pockets would help you.”
She exhales slowly, the sound half laugh, half something else. “You volunteering?”
“Maybe.”
Her gaze lingers a heartbeat longer than it should. “You always did like playing hero.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Didn’t work out so well last time.”
She doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t have to. We both hear the echo of that gym full of laughter, the paper note crumpled in my fist, and the way I didn’t defend her.
A gull cries overhead, sharp and lonely.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for the coffee.”
She nods. “Thanks for the temporary roof.”
I start toward the truck, every step heavier than it should be. When I glance back, she’s still on the porch, watching the horizon like it might tell her what to do with me.
The sky over Otter Creek turns that strange gold-lavender color it only gets in early fall. I drive the long way home, windows down, salt air rolling through the cab, trying to shake off the sound of her laughter. It clings to me like sawdust. The day passes in a blur.
By the time I hit the gravel road to the farmhouse, my coffee’s cold and my pulse still hasn’t slowed.
Moths orbit the illuminated porch light bulb like it’s the moon. Mom’s already inside. I can hear music—Fleetwood Mac, her “cooking therapy” playlist. The screen door groans when I push it open.
“You’re late,” she calls from the kitchen.
“I didn’t know there was a curfew.”
“There is when you miss dinner.”
“I was fixing something.”
She pokes her head around the corner, spatula in hand. “Fixing or avoiding?”
I smirk. “Can’t it be both?”
She narrows her eyes, but her mouth twitches. “There’s a plate in the oven. Eat before the dog does.”
“Lila still around?” I ask about my older sister, wanting to talk to her about Bailey.
“She went home an hour ago. Told me you’d be brooding.”
“Not brooding.” I drop my keys on the counter. “Processing.”
“Uh-huh.”
I grab the plate—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans—and sit at the table. The farmhouse is too quiet at night. Only the creaks in the walls offer any break.
Mom hums as she wipes the counter. “I hear you kept your promise and helped Bailey today.”
I chew, swallow, and stare at the fork. “Temporarily fixed her roof.”
“Of course you did.”
“Lila tell you?”
“Lila tells me everything. It’s her love language.”
“She needs a new hobby.”
Mom sits across from me, hands folded. “You know, coming home doesn’t have to mean repeating the same mistakes.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.” She stands and presses a kiss to the top of my head like I’m ten again. “Then start by being kind to her and to yourself.”
When she leaves, the kitchen feels bigger. I finish eating, rinse the plate, and wander outside after grabbing a beer from the fridge.
The night hums with crickets and the low whisper of wind through the pecan trees. Stars scatter across the dark like spilled salt. I lean against the porch rail, stretching my shoulder until it protests.
The rehab pain is simple. Predictable. It gives me something to measure. Bailey, on the other hand—there’s no scale for that.
I pull out my phone. Lila’s name is already glowing on the screen.
Lila: Mom says you’re thinking. That’s dangerous.
Me: Temporarily fixed the roof. She’s fine.
Lila: “Fine” the word or “fine” the woman?
Me: Go to bed.
Lila: So it’s the woman. Got it.
I shake my head, but the smile sneaks up anyway.
Me: You’re insufferable.
Lila: You love me.
Me: I tolerate you.
Lila: She’s different now, you know.
Me: So am I.
Lila: Then maybe try again, minus the public humiliation.
I stare at the last message until the screen goes dark. Try again.
The idea sits heavy in my chest.
I think about the way Bailey’s eyes softened when she laughed, how the wind played with her hair, how every muscle in me wanted to reach for her and didn’t.
There’s a rustle at the end of the porch. Shadow, the old barn cat, hops up beside me. He head-butts my arm, demanding attention.
“Hey, buddy.” I scratch behind his ears. “You ever screw up so bad you start measuring time by it?”
He blinks at me, unbothered. Typical.
“Didn’t think so.”
The cat curls up, purring, and I stare out toward the faint glow of town. Somewhere beyond those trees, the lighthouse stands—steady, stubborn, shining through the dark.
Kind of like her.
I drain the last of the beer from the bottle beside me and set it on the railing. My shoulder throbs, and my chest feels heavier than it should be.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell myself it was just a roof. Just a favor.
But tonight, under the wide Virginia sky, I know better.