Chapter Four #3
“Good. Leave the man part alone until Marin invites it.”
Crew nodded.
That would be the hard part.
He could run a penalty kill. He could stand between a teammate and a bad hit. He could face reporters after a loss. He could take blame cleanly because that was familiar ground.
Doing nothing?
Waiting?
Letting Marin have the space to want him nowhere near her?
That was going to hurt.
Good.
It should.
Crew found Mrs. Paxton’s contact and called.
She answered on the first ring.
“Crew, dear, I was just about to call you.”
“Channel seven goes through me for anything involving my name.”
A pause.
Then, cautiously, “All right.”
“Not Marin.”
“No, of course.”
“And not the bakery.”
“Yes.”
“And if the committee posts again, it is only about the veterans center, the fundraiser, my father’s service, and approved event information.”
Mrs. Paxton exhaled. “Yes.”
“No romantic captions.”
“Yes.”
“No hearts.”
A longer pause.
“Mrs. Paxton.”
“No hearts,” she said, pained.
Crew heard Dotty saying something in the background.
Mrs. Paxton covered the phone poorly. “He said no hearts.”
Dotty’s muffled reply sounded offended.
Crew pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And take down the apology video.”
Mrs. Paxton went quiet.
He waited.
“Crew,” she said carefully, “that video has already raised five thousand dollars.”
The room went still around him.
Even Eddie stopped moving.
Five thousand dollars.
Crew looked at his father.
Tom’s face did not change, but his eyes closed briefly.
The roof.
The hallway.
The center.
Five thousand dollars because Crew had stood in a town square and admitted he hurt the woman he loved.
Pain, monetized.
He hated it.
He hated that it helped.
“Take it down,” Crew said.
Mrs. Paxton whispered, “Are you sure?”
No.
He was not sure.
That was the problem.
Every choice had teeth.
But he heard Marin’s voice in his head.
My private history is not a bake sale.
“Yes,” Crew said. “Take it down.”
Another pause.
Then Mrs. Paxton said, softer, “All right.”
Crew ended the call.
Tom watched him with something like pride and sadness mixed together.
“You know,” Tom said, “that was a lot of money.”
“Yes.”
“The center needs it.”
“Yes.”
“And you still did right.”
Crew’s chest ached.
“Did I?”
Tom nodded once.
“Next choice better.”
Crew looked down at the phone in his hand.
It buzzed again.
A notification from the Honeybrook Happenings page.
Post deleted.
For the first time all morning, Crew breathed.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Marin.
Not the contact name.
Just Marin.
Because he had never changed it.
He opened the text.
Marin: Did you make them delete it?
Crew stared at the message.
There were a dozen ways to answer wrong.
Yes, because I care about you.
Yes, because I should have protected you sooner.
Yes, because I still love you and Dotty is apparently a prophet with a Facebook account.
He typed:
Crew: Yes.
Then, after a second:
Crew: They said it had raised five thousand dollars. I still told them to take it down.
He waited.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Stopped.
Crew stood in the veterans center with his father and Eddie and a hundred tiny flags, watching three dots become the most important thing in the room.
Finally, Marin’s reply came through.
Marin: Thank you.
Two words.
No punctuation after the thank you.
No warmth he had any right to claim.
Still, something inside him unclenched.
He typed:
Crew: You’re welcome.
Then he stopped.
Deleted it.
Too formal.
He typed:
Crew: Always.
Stopped.
Deleted that too.
Too much.
Too true.
He stood there too long.
Tom cleared his throat.
Crew looked up.
His father’s eyebrows were raised.
“What?” Crew asked.
“You look like you’re defusing a bomb with your thumbs.”
Eddie leaned in from the doorway. “Is it a woman?”
Crew ignored him.
Tom smiled faintly. “Just answer like a normal person.”
Crew looked back at the screen.
A normal person.
Right.
He typed:
Crew: I’m sorry it was posted at all.
Marin read it.
No reply.
That was okay.
It had to be okay.
Crew put the phone away.
Then it buzzed one more time.
Not a text.
A calendar invite.
From Mrs. Paxton.
Crew opened it with dread.
Updated Hometown Hero Week Schedule — Revised and Approved
For one wild second, hope tried to survive.
Then he read the event notes.
The schedule was shorter.
Technically.
The romantic captions were gone.
Technically.
But the next item made every muscle in Crew’s body lock.
Tonight — Veterans Center Cupcake Fundraiser
Suggested visual: Crew Donnelly and Marin Webb jointly serve “Warning Cupcakes” at donor table.
Note: Channel seven may attend for general fundraiser coverage. No couple language. Natural chemistry acceptable.
Natural chemistry acceptable.
Crew stared at the phrase until it became hostile.
Tom leaned over enough to read it.
Then he laughed.
Not hard.
Not cruelly.
But with the absolute betrayal of a father enjoying consequences.
Crew looked at him.
“That’s not funny.”
Tom’s eyes crinkled.
“No,” he said. “It’s extremely funny.”
Crew’s phone buzzed again.
Marin.
Marin: Mrs. Paxton just sent me the revised schedule.
Crew closed his eyes.
Another message appeared.
Marin: What exactly does “natural chemistry acceptable” mean?
Crew had no answer.
Then a third message.
Marin: Actually, don’t answer that.
And then:
Marin: Be at the bakery at six. If we have to serve cupcakes together, you’re wearing an apron.
Crew stared at the screen.
Tom laughed again.
Eddie called from the doorway, “Sounds like a woman.”
Crew typed back before he could think better of it.
Crew: What does the apron say?
Marin’s reply came fast.
Too fast.
Like she had been waiting with the knife already sharpened.
Marin: Captain Problem.
Crew looked at the message.
Then at his father.
Then back at the message.
For the first time since coming home, he smiled for real.
Which was when Marin sent one more text.
Marin: And if anyone asks, you volunteered.
Crew’s smile faded.
Because he had.
Apparently.
Volunteered for an apron.
A donor table.
A news camera.
A woman who hated him, thanked him, remembered him, and still knew exactly where to aim.
Crew put the phone in his pocket and looked at his father.
Tom lifted one tiny flag in salute.
“Next choice better,” he said.
Crew exhaled.
Then he headed for the door, fully aware that better was about to involve frosting, cameras, and the most dangerous apron in the state of Virginia.