25. Data Recovery
Data Recovery
Maren and Reese sit in the yard, the breeze soft against their face as the evening light slips lower across the fences. Reese glances down at her watch. Rowan has been inside far longer than any excited nine-year-old usually manages. She smooths the blanket around her legs before she rises.
“I should probably go check on the kiddo,” she says, looking down at Maren. “I will be right back.”
She heads toward the house and slides the patio door closed behind her.
For a moment, Maren stays where she is. It is the first real quiet she has had all evening.
The familiar pieces drift back to her one by one: the yard, the sound of the wind chimes next door, the worn blanket under her hands.
The way being here with Reese still feels like a memory she never stopped carrying.
She smiles a little, certain now that the energetic chaos goblin might have staged the perfect excuse to leave them alone on purpose.
Maren lingers on the blanket, soaking it all in, letting her hands rest in the folds Reese left behind.
The yard is warm in that early evening way, cicadas starting their steady rise in the nearby trees.
A sprinkler ticks somewhere down the block.
It is the kind of quiet she used to take for granted when she was younger.
Finally, she exhales and pushes herself to her feet. Waiting without doing anything has never been her strong suit.
She looks around and assesses the situation, choosing to start with the simplest tasks.
Plates gathered into a stack. Wrappers folded and dropped into the trash bag tied to the fence.
Juice boxes flattened and dropped into the recycling bin by the fence.
The kind of clean-up that does not need much thought, which is exactly why it works.
The “Victory Picnic” sign flutters a little on its string as she reaches for it.
Rowan had insisted on making it herself, which is obvious when Maren gets an up-close look at exactly how much glitter was used in this project.
Maren pulls it down, smoothing the edges before gently folding it and setting it with the rest of the supplies.
She silently curses the glitter left behind on her hands, knowing she is not going to get it off for a while.
When she reaches the old beach blanket, she pauses. Reese had been sitting right here only a few minutes ago, the imprint of her still soft in the fabric. Maren shakes it out gently and folds it into a neat square.
The yard grows quieter while she works. Light fades slowly behind the rooftops, turning everything gold for a beat before slipping into blue.
When she finally sits down at the patio table, she notices her shoulders have loosened, her energy is lighter.
She has done what she can. The rest is up to whatever Reese brings back with her through that door.
Her backpack sits next to her on the deck. She reaches for it.
She pulls the backpack onto her lap and unzips it, the familiar sound loud in the quiet.
Her laptop slips easily into her hands, the silver still faintly scuffed from living in and out of swim bags, lesson plans, and endless meet schedules.
It is not the original one, the one lost to the cannonball incident on Coach Hensley’s last day, but it has taken its place well enough.
Maren sets it on the table and opens the lid. The screen brightens with a soft glow, reflecting the last threads of daylight fading behind her. Her spreadsheets load automatically, little color-coded tabs lining up like lanes before a race.
She clicks into the current swim season document. Notes from the last meet. Adjusted times. Stroke corrections she wants to work on with Rowan and the other swimmers at the next practice. All the small, steady pieces that make sense to her in a way the rest of her life sometimes does not.
For a while she just lets herself scroll, soaking in the times and splits. The rhythm of it is familiar and grounding. Her fingers move on their own, tapping through sections she has already memorized, checking things she knows are correct. It does not matter. The focus feels good.
When she leans back in the chair, the porch light clicks on overhead, humming softly. The glow settles across the table, catching the faint shimmer of glitter still stuck to her hands. She rubs her thumb along her palm, but the sparkle does not budge.
She exhales, quiet and slow.
The house behind her is still. The sliding door has not moved. Reese must be taking her time with Rowan, and the thought of that brings a small warmth to Maren’s chest.
She turns back to the screen and reaches for the track pad again. Her cursor drifts down to the edge of the spreadsheet, and that is when she notices it. One of the old tabs she never deleted. A workbook she has not opened in years.
Dive Season 2010 - Reese
It catches her, not enough to cause a reaction, but there is a shift.
She does not click on it. She only looks at it. The tab sits there like a small echo from another life, something she once carried so carefully she could not bear to let it go.
A soft sound breaks the quiet behind her. The sliding door opens.
Maren lifts her head as Reese steps back into the yard, carrying two glasses of wine.
Reese steps toward the table, the porch light catching on the curve of the glasses. She sets one down in front of Maren before taking the seat beside her. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that Maren can feel the shift in the air between them.
“She fell asleep while changing into her pajamas,” Reese says with a quiet laugh that sounds more fond than amused. “Out cold. I helped her finish getting ready and tucked her in. She barely even stirred.”
Maren smiles. “Long day for her. She is probably going to want that popsicle for breakfast.”
“You are not wrong,” Reese says, sitting back in the chair. “On either account there.”
For a moment they sit like that, the gentle kind of silence that does not press or ask for attention. Reese lets her gaze drift across the table, taking in the laptop, the open spreadsheet, and the color-coded tabs. Her eyes pause on the far-right side of the screen, and the pink tab.
Her brow lifts just slightly.
“I thought you lost that data,” Reese says, her voice soft, almost careful.
Maren follows her gaze and knows exactly which tab she means. The one she did not open. The one she never could manage to delete.
“Cloud backup,” Maren says. “Some things are too important not to back them up.”
Reese looks at her again, and it is not the quick, flustered glance she used to give when caught off guard. This one is steadier, quieter, and it holds something she does not know how to say out loud.
“Guess we only crashed the laptop, not everything on it,” she murmurs.
A small smile tugs at the corner of Maren’s mouth. “You definitely crashed it.”
Reese huffs a laugh and takes a slow sip of the white wine. When she sets the glass down, her fingers linger on the stem. She turns a little in her chair, angling toward Maren in a way that signals something heavier settling between them.
Maren’s body reacts. Not in surprise, but in understanding.
Reese is ready to talk.
And whatever comes next, spreadsheets will not be a part of it. Reese reaches over and gently closes the laptop, as she takes a deep breath. One, two, three, four.
Reese keeps her hand resting on the closed laptop for a moment, as if making sure it will stay that way. The porch light glows above them, pouring a warm circle of light across the table and the glasses between them.
She sighs softly, steady and weighted. Maren can feel it before Reese even speaks.
“I need to tell you something,” Reese says quietly.
Maren turns toward her, hands folding together in her lap.
Reese looks down at her wine, turning the glass slowly by the stem. “I have been carrying this feeling for a long time. Longer than I ever admitted to myself.”
Maren waits. She has no idea which way this is going to go, but the heaviness in Reese’s voice is something she recognizes and feels in her core.
Reese sets the glass down and presses her palms flat on the table. “I owe you an apology.”
Maren’s freezes, not with fear but confusion. “Reese, you don’t owe me anything.”
“I do,” Reese says. “Just not for the reasons you think.”
Maren gives her the space to continue.
Reese looks up, eyes searching hers, and for the first time tonight she looks a little unsteady.
“You were the first person I ever really loved. I think you know that. And when everything fell apart for me, when I was trying to find something that looked like a life I could trust, I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough.
Or like I left because of something you did. ”
Maren’s chest aches a little at the tenderness of that. “I know, and I never ever thought that.”
Reese nods, but her voice stays soft. “I fell in love again. With Rowan’s mom.
And for a long time, I felt guilty about that.
I kept thinking I should have told you sooner, or explained it better, or done something different so it didn’t feel like I disappeared from your life without giving you the full truth. ”
“You were allowed to love someone else. We didn’t have expectations,” Maren says gently.
Reese swallows. “I know. But it felt like I was betraying the girl who sat with me on the pool deck after practice talking about the future, like we had any idea what we were doing.”
Maren lets out a soft laugh. “Reese, we were kids.”
“Kids who didn’t know how to let go,” Reese goes on. “And I keep thinking that if I had handled things better, maybe I wouldn’t have hurt you the way I did.”
Maren looks at her hands for a moment. She can admit it now, at least to herself. Yes, she was hurt. Yes, it had taken years to stop feeling the sting of losing someone she loved without understanding why. But the hurt is not what rises in her now. Something far gentler has taken its place.
She lifts her gaze. “Reese, if things had happened differently, Rowan wouldn’t be here.”
Reese catches herself in that moment. Maren watches the realization move through her.
“I love that kid,” Maren continues. “More than I expected to. More than I even know how to explain. I see myself in her, all the time. All her little quirks. It is like meeting a younger me. So, no. I don’t want an apology for anything that led us to right here, right now.”
The yard seems to fall even quieter after that. Reese blinks slowly, like she is absorbing each word carefully.
“I never wanted you to think I chose a life away from you because you weren’t worth staying for,” Reese says.
“And I never thought that,” Maren replies. “Life isn’t a straight line. You found love. You built a family. You made a kid who is… honestly one of my favorite humans. I wouldn’t change anything that brought her into the world.”
Reese’s eyes shine a little, but she does not look away. “She adores you, you know.”
Maren smiles. “I adore her too. And I was upgraded from coach to friend. Who wouldn’t love that.”
Reese sits back in her chair, exhaling like she has been holding that breath for years instead of minutes. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear you say that.”
“You didn’t have to carry it alone,” Maren says. “I have always been right here.”
Reese nods slowly. “I think part of me kept my distance because I thought I had to pay for what happened. Like I had to stay out of the way so we could heal.”
Maren shakes her head. “If you had stayed, or even if you had come back earlier, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.
We wouldn’t have Rowan’s sign leaving glitter all over my hands.
” She lifts her hands and wiggles her fingers, sparkling in the porch light.
“We wouldn’t be able to talk like this.”
Reese’s lips curve into a small, honest smile. “She really did shove us into this, didn’t she?”
“She did,” Maren says. “Without even realizing what she was doing.”
For a moment, they both sit there, the night warm around them, their glasses barely touching. The past finally settling between them in a way that does not ache anymore.
Reese reaches out, just brushing her fingertips against the corner of the closed laptop. “I keep thinking about how easily things could have been different.”
Maren reaches out, resting her hand over top of Reese’s as she meets her eyes. “And how lucky we are that things went the way they did.”
Reese holds her gaze, something steady and unguarded, opening there. Something that feels like the start of a truth they have not touched yet.
The night settles around them, the kind of quiet that feels earned.
The porch light flickers for just a moment, then settles back into its natural glow, casting soft circles across the table, across their joined hands, across the forgotten glasses of wine.
Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once before falling silent.
The world narrows back to the space between them.
Reese’s fingers shift under Maren’s hand, not pulling away, only turning enough that their palms fit more naturally together. There is no rush in the movement. No hesitation either. Just a quiet acceptance of the moment they have stepped into.
Maren lets her thumb brush lightly across Reese’s skin. It is the smallest touch, almost nothing at all, but Reese inhales like she feels it everywhere.
For a long time, neither of them speaks.
The yard is dim now, only the porch light holding back the dark, but Maren can still make out the folded blanket, the tidied picnic remnants stacked neatly by the fence, the faint shimmer of glitter catching in the grass. All the pieces of the evening are still here. Still real.
Rowan will come racing through this yard again in the morning. The clover will be taller next week. Practices will continue. Life will keep moving.
But this moment, this small pocket of honesty and peace, feels like something they will both return to.
Reese shifts a little closer in her chair, not enough to close the space completely, just enough to show she is not going anywhere.
“It feels different now,” Reese says softly.
Maren nods. “It does.”
Reese’s eyes meet hers, steady and warm, open in a way they have not been in years.
There is no declaration. No big request.
Only an understanding that the past has been laid down, finally, and something new has room to take its place.
Maren squeezes her hand once, a gentle promise.
The night air presses warm around them. The porch light flickers once again.
And for the first time in a long time, sitting beside Reese feels simple.
It feels like coming home.