Chapter Five #3
His eyebrows lifted.
“You’ve been assigned custody,” I said. “For the week.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
The week.
We both heard what I did not say.
After the Fourth, this ended.
After the Fourth, he left.
Again.
The air changed.
Crew looked down at the apron.
“I can keep it.”
“You have to wear it at any future committee crimes.”
“Understood.”
I pointed at him. “Talia said to stop saying that.”
His mouth curved. “She did.”
“Listen to her. She has knives.”
“You have knives.”
“I have frosting knives. They’re emotional.”
“That seems worse.”
“It is.”
The almost-smile sat between us for half a second.
Then faded.
Not badly.
Just honestly.
Crew’s hand rested on the folded apron.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said.
“It was my bakery.”
“I know.”
“My cupcakes.”
“I know.”
“My fundraiser table.”
“I know.”
“So don’t say thank you like you arranged my participation.”
He nodded.
Not defensive.
Corrected.
“Thank you for letting me be useful in your space,” he said.
My throat tightened.
That was dangerously well-worded.
I narrowed my eyes to offset it.
“Who taught you accountability? I want to file a complaint.”
“My father.”
“Of course he did.”
Crew looked toward the door Tom had left through.
His face softened.
Then tightened.
I saw it before he hid it.
Worry.
The deep kind.
The kind that lived under the ribs.
“How is he really?” I asked.
Crew looked back at me.
For a second, I thought he would give the easy answer.
Dad is Dad.
He didn’t.
“Tired,” he said. “More than he says.”
I braced one hand on the counter.
“Is he—”
“I don’t know.”
The honesty moved through the bakery like a cold draft.
Crew swallowed.
“I hate not knowing.”
I knew that.
Crew Donnelly liked defined problems. Score tied. Time left. Opponent weak side. Roof leaking. Fundraiser short by five figures. Things with edges. Things with drills. Things that could be managed.
A father growing frailer in ways no one wanted to name was not that.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He looked at me like the words cost more than I realized.
“Thank you.”
Silence settled.
Soft.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
The bakery had held hundreds of people an hour ago.
Now it held only us and every version of us that had ever stood in this room.
Seventeen and laughing.
Nineteen and stealing frosting.
Twenty and almost engaged to a future neither of us had said out loud.
Twenty-three and strangers with matching public schedules.
Crew’s gaze moved to the counter.
A crumb sat near my hand.
He reached for a napkin.
At the same time I reached for the crumb.
Our fingers touched.
Barely.
Not even a touch, really.
A brush.
A nothing.
A spark sharp enough to make both of us freeze.
He pulled back first.
Fast.
Respectful.
Ruinous.
“Sorry,” he said.
I should have said it was fine.
I should have said don’t worry.
I should have made a joke.
Instead, I looked at his hand and remembered it at the small of my back during fireworks. Remembered his thumb brushing flour off my cheek. Remembered him lacing his fingers through mine under a table while Tom told a story we had both heard fifteen times.
Remembered the last time I held that hand.
At the bus station.
Temporary, he had said.
I curled my fingers into my palm.
“Crew.”
His eyes lifted.
There was the look.
Not like he was remembering things.
Like he had never stopped.
That was worse.
I took a breath.
A brave one.
Maybe a stupid one.
“Why didn’t you call?”
The question landed between us.
Three years old.
Still breathing.
Crew went completely still.
The bakery lights hummed.
The star balloon hit the window one more time and then drifted away.
Crew’s face changed.
Not into guilt.
Into grief.
“I wanted to,” he said.
Wrong answer.
My chest hardened.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to.”
“I know.”
“Wanting doesn’t count.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
His jaw worked once.
He looked down.
Then back at me.
For the first time since he had walked into the bakery yesterday, Crew Donnelly looked less like Captain Serious and more like the boy who had stood on a curb with too much fear in his hands and called it a plan.
“Because I knew if I heard your voice,” he said, “I would come home.”
The words knocked all the air out of me.
I hated that answer.
I hated it because it hurt.
I hated it because it was not enough.
I hated it because some weak, hidden, furious part of me understood exactly why he had been afraid.
Crew took a breath.
“And I thought leaving was the only thing I was allowed to be good at.”
My hand tightened on the counter.
The bakery blurred at the edges.
“No,” I said.
His eyes held mine.
“No?”
“You don’t get to make that beautiful.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You are. You’re standing there with your sad captain face and your tragic little sentence like that makes it hurt less.”
His mouth closed.
Good.
Anger was better.
I could stand inside anger.
“You left,” I said. “And maybe you were scared. Maybe you were drowning. Maybe you had reasons that would have mattered to me if you had trusted me enough to tell me. But you didn’t. You chose silence for both of us.”
“I know.”
“No, Crew. You don’t.” My voice shook. I hated that.
I kept going anyway. “You got to leave and be busy. Practices. Games. Road trips. New people. New life. I got to stay here with everybody asking about you like you were weather. I got to smile when people said they saw your highlights. I got to pretend I was happy for you because I was, and that made it worse.”
His face went pale.
“I didn’t know.”
“Exactly.”
The words cracked in the room.
He absorbed them.
No defense.
No interruption.
Just took them.
That should have satisfied me.
It did not.
Nothing about him satisfied me.
That was the problem.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because if I did not, I might cry.
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t fix it.”
“I know.”
“Stop knowing things.”
His mouth twitched sadly.
“I’ll try.”
“Crew.”
“Sorry.”
I pressed both hands to my face.
Then dropped them.
He was still standing there.
Close enough to hurt.
Far enough to respect the wound.
I hated him for both.
The doorbell jingled.
We both turned.
Talia stood in the doorway from the back hall, holding a stack of receipts and wearing the expression of a woman who had heard nothing and everything.
“Sorry,” she said. “I made noise. On purpose. Because the emotional humidity in here could ruin the macarons.”
I wiped under one eye quickly.
“Macarons are dramatic.”
“So are ex-boyfriends in aprons.”
Crew looked down.
He was still holding the apron.
Captain Problem.
Volunteer for consequences.
Talia’s gaze moved between us.
Then landed on Crew.
“Channel Seven posted the clip.”
I stiffened.
Crew’s head snapped up.
“What clip?” he asked.
“The fundraiser one,” Talia said quickly. “The good one. About the roof. About Tom. About Marin’s bakery.”
She turned her phone toward us.
The post title read:
Honeybrook Bakery Raises Thousands for Veterans Center Roof Fund
The thumbnail showed the cupcake table.
Not Crew and me.
Not the almost-touch.
Not our faces angled toward each other like a mistake.
Just the cupcakes. The donation jars. Tom in the background, smiling.
My chest loosened.
Then Talia scrolled.
“Comments are mostly good,” she said. “Lots of donations. Lots of people asking how to contribute.”
Crew exhaled.
I did too.
Then Talia’s mouth twitched.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Talia.”
She turned the phone slightly away.
I grabbed it.
She let me because she enjoyed consequences too much.
Below the Channel Seven post, one comment had already gathered too many likes.
@DottyDaily: Also, the apron deserves its own interview.
Under it, Frankie had commented from what appeared to be the official Spitfires account.
Spitfires Hockey: Captain Problem merch when?
Crew closed his eyes.
Talia whispered, “Oh no.”
My phone buzzed.
Then Crew’s.
Then Talia’s.
The same notification appeared on all three screens.
The Webb & Whisk account had received twenty-three new messages.
All asking the same thing.
Do you sell the Captain Problem apron?
I stared at the phone.
Crew stared at me.
Talia stared at both of us like she had just watched capitalism descend from the heavens wearing skates.
My phone buzzed again.
Mrs. Paxton.
Mrs. Paxton: I know we said no couple language, but what are your thoughts on apron preorders for the roof fund?
I looked slowly at Crew.
He looked at the apron.
Then at me.
His expression was serious.
Too serious.
Catastrophically serious.
“Marin,” he said.
“No.”
“We could raise money.”
“No.”
“For the roof.”
“No.”
“With approved language.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched.
I pointed at him.
“Do not look noble in my bakery while wearing my insult.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
Talia lifted one finger.
“I hate to say this.”
I turned on her. “Then don’t.”
“The apron is funny.”
“No.”
“It’s fundraiser relevant.”
“No.”
“It protects the story from romance because it makes him look like your court-ordered pastry assistant.”
Crew nodded. “That is accurate.”
I glared at him.
He stopped nodding.
Talia continued, “And people want it.”
I looked down at the phone.
More messages rolled in.
Captain Problem apron preorder?
Need one for my husband.
Can Webb & Whisk ship?
I would buy this immediately.
Volunteer for Consequences is my marriage.
I closed my eyes.
I could feel the universe laughing.
It sounded suspiciously like Wilder Knox.
Crew’s voice came carefully.
“Your call.”
I opened my eyes.
He was looking at me with no pressure.
No public performance.
No fix-it posture.
Just letting the decision sit in my hands.
Again.
Annoying.
Effective.
I looked at the apron.
Then at the donation total written on Mrs. Paxton’s last update.
Then at the photo of Tom on the Channel Seven thumbnail.
Then at Crew.
This was how it happened, apparently.
Not with a kiss.
Not with a confession.
Not with fireworks.
With an apron I made out of rage becoming a fundraiser product because my ex-boyfriend was unfortunately marketable when humbled.
“Fine,” I said.
Talia gasped.
Crew did not move.
Smart man.