Chapter Six #2
Not comfortable silence.
Not old silence.
Emergency silence.
Marin climbed into the passenger seat before he could open the door for her, which was fine. Expected. Probably safer.
Crew got behind the wheel.
His hands felt too calm on the steering wheel.
That happened sometimes.
When fear got too big, his body went quiet.
Useful on ice.
Terrible everywhere else.
He started the truck.
Marin buckled her seat belt.
“You can drive fast,” she said.
“I know.”
“Not stupid.”
“I know.”
“Don’t say understood.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
She looked at him.
Then out the windshield.
The veterans center was four blocks away.
Four.
It felt like forty miles.
Crew pulled onto Main Street.
His phone rang before he reached the corner.
Dad.
Crew hit speaker.
“Dad?”
“I am fine,” Tom said.
Crew’s grip tightened on the wheel.
That was a terrible opening.
“People who are fine don’t lead with that.”
Marin made a small sound beside him.
Tom heard it.
“Marin there?”
“Yes,” Crew said.
“Good. She’ll tell you not to be an idiot.”
Marin leaned toward the phone.
“I was already doing that before you called.”
Tom chuckled.
Crew could breathe a little with that chuckle in the truck.
A little.
“What happened?” Crew asked.
“Stood up too fast. Eddie panicked because he enjoys drama.”
In the background, Eddie shouted, “I enjoy not scraping retired Marines off tile.”
Tom ignored him.
“I’m sitting. I drank water. I am being supervised against my will.”
Crew glanced at Marin.
Her face was pale, but her jaw was set.
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
“No, kid.”
“Tom.”
Crew looked at her again.
That one word did what Crew’s worry could not.
It cut through Tom’s stubbornness.
A pause.
Then Tom sighed.
“I’ve got a call in. Nurse is calling back.”
Crew’s chest loosened by a degree.
“Good,” Marin said.
Tom chuckled softly. “You always were better at command than my son.”
Crew should have protested.
He did not.
It was true.
Marin looked out the side window.
Her mouth trembled once before she pressed it firm.
Crew saw.
He wished he hadn’t.
Not because he did not want to know she was scared.
Because he wanted to reach for her.
He kept both hands on the wheel.
Tom said, “No speeding, Crew.”
“I’m not.”
“He is not,” Marin confirmed. “Annoyingly.”
“Good. See? Command.”
The call ended after Tom promised not to stand up before they arrived.
Crew parked at the veterans center two minutes later.
Marin was out of the truck before the engine fully died.
Crew followed.
Inside, Tom sat in a chair near the main room with Eddie hovering beside him and three older veterans pretending not to hover by hovering from farther away.
Tom looked irritated.
That was reassuring.
His color was not.
That was not.
Crew crossed the room and crouched in front of him.
“Hey.”
Tom frowned. “Do not kneel before me. I’m not a king or a loose skate.”
Crew almost laughed and hated how close it came to breaking.
Marin moved to Tom’s other side.
She did not ask permission.
She took his wrist and checked his pulse like she had done it before.
Maybe she had.
Maybe Tom had been dizzy before and Crew had not known.
That thought lodged under his ribs.
Marin’s fingers rested gently against Tom’s wrist.
Her face changed into something Crew had not seen all week.
Soft command.
Not bakery anger.
Not old hurt.
Care.
Focused and sure.
“Did you eat?” she asked.
Tom looked offended. “I am an adult.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Eddie pointed. “He had coffee and half a muffin.”
“Traitor,” Tom muttered.
Marin’s eyes narrowed. “Half a muffin since when?”
“Breakfast.”
“It is almost ten.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Being busy is not protein.”
Tom looked at Crew. “She always this bossy?”
“Yes,” Crew said.
Marin looked at him.
“Correctly bossy,” Crew added.
“Better.”
Eddie handed Marin a bottle of water.
She gave it to Tom.
“Drink.”
Tom drank.
Crew watched his father obey Marin Webb without argument and felt something complicated move through him.
This was not new.
That was the part that hurt.
Marin and Tom had stayed connected in small ways Crew had missed. Not because they hid it. Because he had been gone. Because life continued after you left. People adjusted around the absence until the absence stopped being central.
Crew had imagined Marin frozen in the pain he caused.
She had not been.
She had grieved.
Then grown.
Then built.
Then kept loving people who deserved it.
Tom finished drinking and lowered the bottle.
“Happy?”
“No,” Marin said. “Less annoyed.”
Tom smiled faintly. “I’ll take it.”
The nurse called five minutes later.
Tom put the phone on speaker only because Marin stared him into compliance. The nurse asked questions. Tom answered with the minimum amount of information permitted by stubbornness until Marin started adding facts.
Lightheaded.
Skipped food.
Warm room.
Long morning.
Recent fatigue.
Crew listened to each word like it was evidence.
The nurse recommended rest, food, fluids, and follow-up if symptoms returned or worsened. If chest pain, shortness of breath, confusion, weakness, or fainting happened, go to the ER.
Tom promised.
Marin made him promise again.
This time with eye contact.
Crew loved her in that moment so hard it scared him.
Not because she was caring for his father.
Because she was Marin.
Sharp. Soft. Furious. Capable. Loyal to people even when the ties hurt.
He had loved her when they were young.
He had missed her when he was gone.
But this—watching her as the woman she had become without him—this was something deeper and more devastating.
This was not memory.
This was now.
And now was worse.
After the call, Eddie brought a plate with crackers, peanut butter, and a banana from the center kitchen.
Tom looked betrayed.
Marin looked approving.
“Eat,” she said.
Tom ate.
Crew stood because if he stayed crouched, he might fall apart.
His phone buzzed.
Mrs. Paxton.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
He ignored it harder.
Marin noticed.
“Answer it.”
“No.”
“It might be about the fundraiser.”
“It is not more important than this.”
Tom pointed a cracker at him.
“Answer. If Shirley Paxton is unsupervised, she may authorize fireworks indoors.”
Marin took Crew’s phone from his hand.
He let her.
That was apparently a thing now.
Her reading his phone like old muscle memory.
Her thumb tapped the screen.
Her face went flat.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Crew looked over.
Mrs. Paxton had texted:
I heard Tom is fine thank goodness. Also Channel Seven asked if they could get a quick shot of Marin arriving with you at the center because it shows community care. I told them probably not.
Then:
By probably I mean I said no but they are outside.
Crew turned toward the front windows.
A news van sat on the curb.
Marin saw it too.
Eddie swore under his breath.
Tom sighed.
Crew’s body moved before his brain finished.
He headed for the door.
Marin caught his arm.
Not hard.
But enough.
The touch stopped him instantly.
Heat shot through him.
Fear with it.
He looked down at her hand.
So did she.
She let go.
“Do not go out there angry,” she said.
Crew looked at the news van.
“I’m not angry.”
“Crew.”
He looked back at her.
She knew.
Of course she did.
The anger was not loud, but it was there. Under his skin. Controlled. Pressurized. The captain’s version of rage: quiet enough to be mistaken for discipline.
“They followed us here,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of clicks.”
“Because of the story.”
“Because people are people,” Tom said from his chair.
Crew turned.
His father looked tired again.
Too tired.
But his eyes were clear.
“Don’t make the story bigger by fighting it on the sidewalk,” Tom said.
Crew breathed once.
Then again.
Marin stepped beside him.
Not in front.
Beside.
A choice.
His body registered it with dangerous hope.
“We tell them no,” she said.
Crew looked at her.
“We?”
She rolled her eyes, but there was fear beneath it.
“For the roof,” she said. “Obviously.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Obviously.”
Together, they walked to the front door.
That was the problem.
Together felt too natural.
Outside, Lacey stood near the van with her camera operator, looking uncomfortable. Good. She should.
Crew opened the door.
Marin stepped out with him.
Lacey lifted a hand quickly.
“I know. I’m sorry. My producer sent us after hearing the scanner chatter from the center line.”
“There was no scanner chatter,” Marin said.
Lacey winced. “Small-town phone tree chatter.”
“Worse.”
“Yes.”
Crew kept his voice even. “My father had a private medical moment. There’s no story.”
Lacey nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
Marin’s hand brushed his wrist.
A warning.
Not now.
He inhaled slowly.
Lacey looked genuinely apologetic.
“We won’t film him,” she said. “Or you going in. Or anything through the windows. I just wanted to ask if there was a statement about tonight’s fundraiser still being on.”
Marin’s posture shifted.
Business.
Protective.
“Yes,” she said. “The fundraiser is still on. The finished cupcake pickup and apron preorder table will open at noon at Webb & Whisk. All proceeds go to the veterans center roof repair. Tom is resting and appreciates everyone giving him privacy.”
Lacey nodded. “Can we use that?”
Marin glanced at Crew.
Her call.
Always her call.
“Yes,” she said. “Audio only. No video of us here.”
“Agreed.”
Crew studied Lacey.
She seemed sincere.
He still wanted her gone.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
Lacey nodded. “We’re leaving.”
She kept her word.
The van pulled away two minutes later.
Crew and Marin stood on the sidewalk watching it go.
Their arms were close.
Too close.
Not touching.
He could feel her anyway.
The morning sun was bright enough to make him squint. The flag above the veterans center snapped in the breeze. Somewhere down the street, a mower started. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds.
His heart had not returned to ordinary.
Marin exhaled.
“Okay,” she said.
Crew looked at her.
“You okay?”
“I’m not the one who got lightheaded.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her eyes flicked to his.
For a second, she looked tired.
Younger.
No.
Not younger.
Less armored.
“I hate this,” she said.
“I know.”
Her mouth twisted.
“There’s that again.”