Chapter Seventeen – Crew #3
“Now I’m tired of being tired,” she says, eyes fierce. “I’m tired of putting myself last. I’m tired of deciding for other people whether or not I’m worth the trouble. If you think I am, then… I want to try. Really try.”
I swallow hard. “Okay,” I say, the word rough. “Then we try.”
She searches my face. “You’re sure? This isn’t just storm brain talking?”
“Look at me,” I say.
She does.
“You think one night is enough to flip some switch I haven’t been able to shut off for years?” I ask quietly. “I don’t suddenly love you because we slept together, Bailey. I already did. This just… finally matches the reality to the feeling.”
Her inhale is sharp, shaky. “You love me,” she repeats, like she’s testing the words for cracks.
“I do,” I say. “I’m not expecting you to chuck confetti and say it back right now. You can take your time. But I need you to know I’m not in this halfway.”
She stares at me, eyes swimming, chest rising and falling quickly. For a second, I think I’ve gone too far.
Then she whispers, “I love you, too.”
It lands like a hit and a healing all at once.
I close my eyes for a second, letting it wash over me. When I open them again, she’s still there, still watching me like she’s not sure if she’s just broken something or fixed it.
“Okay,” I say, a little breathless. “That was faster than I expected.”
She laughs, tears spilling over now. “I’ve been—” Her voice cracks. She tries again. “I’ve been saying it in my head for months, Crew. Years, probably, if we’re being honest. I just didn’t trust my mouth not to… ruin everything.”
I pull her up, cradle her face in both hands, and kiss her, slow and deep and as gentle as I can make it.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard again, but this time the urgency feels less like hunger and more like relief.
“We’re a mess,” I murmur.
“Speak for yourself,” she says, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffing. “I am a very put-together independent business owner who just happens to be naked in a storm with her ex-almost-boyfriend who is now apparently her actual boyfriend.”
“Is that what I am?” I ask, a stupid grin tugging at my mouth.
She pretends to think about it. “Hmm,” she says. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I’ll have new business cards printed.”
She snorts. “Crew Wright: Professional Boyfriend. Rates negotiable.”
“For you?” I murmur. “I work for bookstore credit.”
Her eyes go soft again. “Dangerous offer,” she whispers. “I could keep you forever that way.”
“That’s kind of the point,” I say.
She burrows back against my chest, sighing. “Is it weird that I’m relieved we had The Talk after we had sex?” she asks, voice muffled. “Is that backward?”
“I don’t think there’s a right order,” I say. “We’ve been doing everything out of order since we were sixteen.”
“True,” she says. “Might as well keep the theme going.”
We lie there for a while, just breathing, the rhythm of her rising and falling chest syncing with my own.
Eventually, she mumbles, “If we fall asleep, you’re not allowed to freak out in the morning and pretend this didn’t happen.”
“I won’t,” I say immediately.
“I’m serious,” she says, poking my ribs lightly. “I’ve seen the movies. I’ve read the books. Guy panics, girl pretends she doesn’t care, twelve chapters of avoidable angst.”
“Are you really using romance tropes as a cautionary tale?” I ask, amused.
“Yes,” she says. “This is my area of expertise.”
“Okay, expert,” I say. “What’s the correct trope for tomorrow morning?”
She considers. “Soft morning after with shared toothbrush jokes, coffee, and maybe some slightly awkward but honest conversation,” she decides. “Followed by a gentle re-entry into the world where we resist the urge to overshare with the entire town for at least forty-eight hours.”
“So no posting a selfie with the caption ‘Stormed his castle, 10/10 would recommend’?” I ask.
“Oh my God,” she groans, laughing. “Absolutely not. If we’re turning this into a public-relations rollout, it has to be a slow-burn reveal. Think strategically timed holding-hands moment at the farmers’ market.”
“I don’t know if I can wait that long to hold your hand in public,” I say.
She squeezes my fingers. “You don’t have to wait in private,” she whispers.
I tighten my grip. “Good. Because I’m not letting go anytime soon.”
Another gust of wind rattles the window. The lights flicker, then stabilize.
Bailey yawns, her body relaxing more fully against mine. “If the power goes out,” she mumbles, already half asleep, “you have to tell me a story.”
“What kind of story?” I ask softly.
“One where we get a happy ending,” she says, words slurring.
I press my lips to her hair. “Deal. Though I think we just wrote the first chapter.”
She hums, a little pleased sound, and then her breathing evens out, slow and steady.
I lie there in the flickering light, listening to the storm rage and the woman I love sleep on my chest, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.
I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The storm finally starts to ebb sometime in the deep hours, the rain easing from a furious drumline to a steady, sleepy patter. My eyes grow heavy, but I force myself to stay awake a little longer, just to memorize this.
Bailey. The way her hand twitches in her sleep, fingers still locked with mine. The quiet little puff of air every third breath. The warmth of her thigh over my hip like a seat belt.
Tomorrow, there will be questions. Siblings. Teammates. Small-town speculation. Logistics about my rehab schedule and her shop hours, about how we fit our lives together in ways that don’t look like they do in the books on her shelves.
But tonight, there’s just this.
Grabbing my phone, I do something I’ve been avoiding for the last few days—I write an email.
Coach—
Cleared throwing well. I’ll be in on Monday. I also want to talk about role and pace. I’m not the kid I was. I can give you everything I have. It just might not look like what it used to. If that’s a problem, tell me now so I don’t sell you something I can’t stand behind.
I read it twice, three times, then hit send before I let fear dress it in different words. I stare at the screen until the sent confirmation stops pulsing. Then I text Bailey.
Me: Sent Coach my thoughts.
She replies with a photo of the otter in a triumphant pose.
Bailey: Proud of my quarterback.
I save it like a teenage idiot and refuse to be ashamed.
I sleep hard. When dawn threads the blinds, I feel taller, like a bone set correctly overnight.
The next day is player logistics and adults using acronyms in emails. Before I take their requested video, I stop by the shop. Bailey presses a kiss to my cheek for luck and slips a note in my pocket I don’t read until I’m back at the farm.
You don’t have to become smaller to fit the life you want. I’ll make more room. -B.
I throw the ball into the net and rush around trees as if they’re offensive linemen, sending the video to the coaches, feeling like nothing more than a pawn.
My phone buzzes.
Coach: Let’s talk Monday. Proud of you, kid.
I smile and don’t apologize for how big it is.
When I head back to the lighthouse for the afternoon shift I pretended wasn’t mine, the bay looks wide enough to hold both lives. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m the one who wasn’t.
I park, jog up the path, and stop dead at the sight waiting at the gate: a news van at the curb.
A guy with a camera on his shoulder. A woman with a mic adjusting her hair in the side mirror.
My chest drops and then hardens. The email, the boundaries, the polite no—we did all of it. They came anyway.
Before the old panic can rehearse the old dance, Bailey steps out onto the porch, stance small but immovable, chin up. She sees me. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t mouth a warning. Just looks at me like I already know how to walk through this with her.
I do.
I walk up the steps and take her hand like we always meant to do it in front of everybody. The reporter turns, smile bright and sharp. “Crew, Bailey—can we grab you for just a minute about the story hour?”
“No,” I say, calm. “But you can email the team. They’ll send a statement.”
She tries again, a different angle. “Is this official? Are you two—”
“It’s a bookstore,” Bailey says, voice even. “And it’s a school event. Please don’t film the kids.”
The camera guy drops the lens a fraction, human under the job. The reporter falters, then recalibrates. “We’d love a feel-good—”
“Then run something else, maybe the bookstore’s fundraiser.” I nod at the camera. “That’ll do more good than our faces.”
We wait. It’s less a standoff than two people testing whether the other side recognizes the difference between a story and a life. The mic lowers an inch. The camera goes to standby. The reporter nods, one professional to another. “We’ll email,” she says. “Good luck with your return.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
They leave without footage. I can’t make that happen most days in my world. Today we did. It feels like a new muscle firing.
On the porch, Bailey exhales so slow it’s almost invisible. I squeeze her hand once and don’t let go. “Reckless?” I ask, with a grin I can’t stop from breaking the tension.
She shakes her head, laughing with her whole body. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Consistent,” I say.
She steps in and puts her forehead to mine in a move that now lives rent-free under my sternum. “Tomorrow,” she whispers our now inside joke, and we both know tomorrow is closer than it’s ever been.
“Tomorrow,” I answer, and for the first time in a long time, both halves of my life nod at the same time.