Chapter Six #2
Hailey looked at her for a moment.
Then smiled gently.
“You are doing it again.”
Meagan stilled. “Doing what?”
“Taking care of everyone.”
“I am telling you to prepare for a client call.”
“You’re telling me not to help because you want to protect my schedule.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is a little.”
Meagan looked toward the box.
The photographs needed to be organized.
Someone had to do it.
There was nothing unreasonable about recognizing that Hailey’s work mattered more than a memory display.
Aaron stood and lifted the box.
“I’ve got it.”
“I can carry that.”
“I know.”
The familiar response moved through her.
Capability acknowledged.
Help still offered.
She gathered her notebook.
Amanda pushed back her chair. “I can stay.”
“No.”
“I haven’t told you why.”
“You will either discuss the kiss or ask whether Aaron has broken rule six.”
The room quieted.
Evelyn looked between them. “What kiss?”
“No kiss,” Meagan said.
Amanda brightened. “Would anyone like a concise timeline?”
Hailey caught Amanda’s arm and pulled her toward the door.
“We have program copy to review.”
“I already reviewed it.”
“Review it again.”
“Repetition weakens impact.”
“So does being removed from a building.”
Jack had clearly influenced Hailey.
Meagan approved.
Amanda allowed herself to be led away.
At the doorway, she looked back.
“Remember to hydrate.”
“That was not about water,” Meagan said.
Amanda disappeared into the hallway.
Aaron lifted the box. “She seems supportive.”
“She is a menace.”
“She can be both.”
Within minutes, the main conference room had emptied.
Aaron carried the box into the smaller room at the back of the office.
The room held one round table, four chairs, and a wide window facing the ocean.
Afternoon sunlight crossed the carpet. Beyond the glass, beachgoers moved along the path.
Aaron set the box on the table.
“Where do you want to start?”
“By determining what we have.”
Meagan removed the photographs and created three stacks.
Youth programs.
Athletes and tournaments.
Donors and fundraising.
Aaron pulled out a chair.
“You’re not leaving?”
“I said I would help.”
“You have work.”
“This is work.”
“You handle community partnerships.”
“This is the community.”
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It’s on the website.”
Meagan sat across from him. Across was safer. The table created distance. The box created purpose.
The photographs created hundreds of opportunities not to discuss the kiss.
She handed him the athlete stack.
“Arrange these by approximate year. Check the uniforms, logos, and hairstyles.”
“Hairstyles?”
“Several appear historically significant.”
He laughed.
For fifteen minutes, they worked without mentioning what had happened in the ballroom.
The silence was not uncomfortable.
That was part of the problem.
Aaron did not force conversation. He studied each photograph, checked the backs for dates, and occasionally identified someone Meagan did not recognize.
“That’s Tyler,” he said, passing her a photograph.
Tyler stood beside a net wearing red board shorts and an expression of intense concentration. He could not have been older than eighteen.
Beside him, a much younger Aaron held a volleyball above Jack’s head while Jack tried to reach it.
Aaron’s hair was longer. His smile was wider. Jack looked prepared to commit violence over possession of the ball.
Meagan smiled.
“You were irritating even then.”
“I was charming.”
“You are holding equipment beyond someone’s reach.”
“Jack claimed he could jump higher.”
“Could he?”
“No.”
“Then this appears unnecessary.”
“It established the truth.”
Meagan studied the photograph.
There was an ease among the three of them.
Youth.
Friendship.
The belief that the future would unfold without requiring permission.
“What happened?” she asked.
“In the picture?”
“With volleyball.”
Aaron’s expression shifted.
“You said you stopped competing regularly.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
He leaned back and looked toward the window.
“I was good. Not great.”
“That is subjective.”
“Not at that level.”
He nodded toward the photograph.
“Tyler had the discipline and instincts. Jack had more raw talent than he wanted anyone to know. I could keep up, but keeping up isn’t the same as building a life around something.”
“That must have been difficult to accept.”
“It was.”
His honesty came without drama.
No false humility.
No attempt to make the decision smaller.
“What did you do?”
“For a while, I pretended I hadn’t decided. I traveled with them. Played smaller events. Told everyone I was considering options.”
“But you knew.”
“I knew before I admitted it.”
He picked up another photograph.
“The foundation needed volunteers for a youth clinic. Tyler asked me to help. I agreed because I was running out of excuses not to decide what came next.”
“And you liked it.”
“I liked watching a kid realize she was good at something.”
His thumb moved along the edge of the photograph.
“I liked helping people stay in the sport when money or transportation or family problems would have pushed them out. I liked knowing the work mattered when no one was watching.”
Something about the answer touched her more deeply than she expected.
She had assumed Aaron’s ease meant he moved lightly through the world.
She had not considered that he had rebuilt his life after discovering the first one did not fit.
“Do you miss competing?”
“Sometimes.”
He looked at her.
“But not enough to want the old life back.”
The words held another meaning.
Or perhaps Meagan assigned one because she had spent the past three days turning everything he said into a possible reference to them.
She lowered her gaze to the caption cards.
“You seem certain about what you want.”
“I’m not certain about everything.”
His gaze remained on her.
The answer was obvious enough that warmth entered her face.
Aaron looked down at the photograph again.
“I’m trying to decide whether this belongs in the athlete section or the evidence-against-Jack section.”
“You changed the subject.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked like you needed me to.”
The same words he had used in the garage.
Because you looked like you needed someone to.
Meagan’s chest tightened.
Aaron returned his attention to the photographs.
No demand that she acknowledge what had passed between them.
He seemed to understand exactly how close he could come before she needed an exit.
Meagan disliked how much she appreciated that.
They resumed working.
The athlete photographs were mostly dated. The donor photographs were not. Meagan grouped them using signage, venue changes, and the visible ages of foundation directors.
Aaron identified people.
Meagan wrote captions.
Every few minutes, they reached for the same photograph.
Their fingers brushed twice.
The first time, Meagan pulled back.
The second time, neither did.
Aaron’s fingertips rested against hers on the edge of a sunset-tournament photograph.
Meagan looked at their hands.
Then at him.
His expression remained careful.
He was letting her decide.
She slid the photograph toward herself.
Aaron released it.
The lack of pressure made her want to reach for him again.
Her phone buzzed.
Amanda.
Meagan turned it facedown.
Aaron lifted one eyebrow.
“I am not asking.”
“That is wise.”
“Is she checking on your hydration?”
“Probably.”
His mouth curved.
Meagan studied the photograph.
A woman stood beneath a foundation banner holding an oversized donation check. Around her, athletes and volunteers applauded.
The woman looked recognized.
Necessary.
Meagan placed it in the donor stack.
“You’ve been quiet since yesterday,” Aaron said.
Her fingers stilled.
“I have been working.”
“You’ve been working near me.”
“That still qualifies.”
“You stopped answering the group chat.”
“That should be considered healthy behavior.”
“You answered Hailey.”
“She asked a direct question.”
“So did I.”
Meagan looked up. “When?”
His message had arrived that morning.
Are you okay?
Meagan had read it and spent twenty minutes deciding whether okay required a truthful answer.
She had not responded.
“I knew I would see you here.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I am aware.”
Aaron studied her face.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
He returned to the photographs.
No follow-up. No demand.
Meagan should have felt relieved.
Instead, guilt moved beneath her ribs.
“You do that too easily.”
“Do what?”
“Stop asking.”
“You don’t want to answer.”
“That has not stopped anyone else.”
“I’m not anyone else.”
The response came quietly.
Meagan’s heartbeat changed.
Aaron leaned back, giving her more space.
“I want you to talk to me,” he said. “But I don’t want you to feel cornered.”
“You think I feel cornered?”
“I think the kiss felt more real than you expected.”
The accuracy irritated her.
“That is an assumption.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot know what I felt.”
“No.”
His gaze stayed on hers.
“I know what I felt.”
The room became still.
Meagan looked toward the window. A cyclist passed on the path below.
“What did you feel?”
The question escaped before she could stop it.
Aaron was quiet.
When she looked back, every trace of humor had left his face.
“I wanted to kiss you before Daniel walked into the room.”
Her breath caught.
Aaron looked down at the photograph between them.
“But that wasn’t why I did it.”
“You kissed me because I nodded.”
“Yes.”
The simple answer affected her more than a declaration would have.
He had wanted her.
He had still waited.
Meagan lowered her gaze.
“I followed you.”
His expression softened.
“When you pulled away,” she continued. “I followed you.”
“I remember.”
“Of course you do.”
“I remember things.”
She almost smiled.
“I didn’t plan to.”
“I know.”
“I would not have agreed if I thought—”
She stopped.
Aaron did not finish the sentence for her.
“If you thought what?”
Meagan looked at him.
“That I would like it.”
The admission barely carried across the table.
Aaron’s face changed. Not triumph. Something quieter.
Tender enough to make her wish she could take back the words.
“There’s nothing wrong with liking it,” he said.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what happens after.”
Aaron rested his forearms on the table.
“Nothing has to happen after.”