Chapter Ten #3
“You don’t get to say you were scared like that gives me back three years of wondering what I did wrong.”
Crew’s throat closed.
“I know.”
Her eyes filled now.
Fully.
She blinked hard, furious at them.
“I would have helped you.”
His chest cracked.
“I know.”
“No.” Her voice shook. “You don’t. Because if you knew, you would have let me.”
Crew looked down.
There was nothing to say to that.
Nothing good enough.
Marin wiped under one eye fast.
Angry.
Embarrassed.
Heartbroken all over again.
“You made me feel disposable because you were afraid of being needy.”
Crew shut his eyes.
The sentence went through him like a blade.
When he opened them, she was still there.
Standing.
Not leaving.
Yet.
“You were not disposable,” he said.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
She drew in a shaky breath.
“I believe that you were scared,” she said. “I believe that you thought you were protecting me. I even believe that you loved me.”
Loved.
Past tense.
Maybe not only past.
Crew did not move.
“But the version of me you were protecting was not real,” she said. “She was some fragile girl you invented because trusting the actual me would have required you to be honest.”
He could barely breathe.
“Yes.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
“Stop knowing.”
His eyes burned now.
“I’m sorry.”
She laughed once, broken.
“There it is.”
“I don’t have another word.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other.
The hallway held all of it.
The secret.
The old hurt.
The new fear.
The terrible relief of truth arriving ugly instead of never.
Then the curtain behind them shifted.
Tom’s voice came from inside, hoarse but clear.
“Crew?”
Crew was on his feet instantly.
Marin stepped back.
Crew looked at her.
She looked away.
“Go,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Go,” she repeated.
He went.
Tom was awake, frowning.
“You two fighting in a hospital hallway?”
Crew stopped beside the bed.
“Rest.”
“That means yes.”
“Dad.”
Tom’s eyes moved past him toward the curtain.
“Marin still here?”
Crew swallowed.
“I think so.”
“You tell her?”
Crew looked at him.
Tom sighed.
“About before you left.”
Crew went still.
“You knew?”
Tom’s face twisted with regret.
“I knew enough.”
Crew’s anger flashed before he could stop it.
“You knew and didn’t tell her either?”
Tom closed his eyes.
“I thought it was your truth to tell.”
Crew stared at him.
The monitors beeped.
Tom opened his eyes again.
“I was wrong.”
Crew had no place to put that.
The man he admired most had made the same mistake in a different shape.
Silence.
Then Tom said, “Bring her in.”
“I don’t know if she wants—”
“Ask,” Tom said.
Crew stood there, wrecked.
Then nodded.
He stepped back into the hallway.
Marin was not in the chair.
For one terrifying second, he thought she had left.
Then he saw her near the window at the end of the hall, arms wrapped around herself, looking out at the parking lot lights.
Crew walked halfway to her and stopped.
“Marin.”
She did not turn.
“Dad is asking for you.”
Her shoulders tightened.
“He knows?”
Crew closed his eyes briefly.
“Yes.”
A long pause.
Then she turned.
The hurt in her face was quieter now.
Worse.
“Of course he does.”
“He says he was wrong not to tell you.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Everyone was very busy deciding what I didn’t need to know.”
Crew took that hit.
“Yes.”
She looked toward Tom’s room.
Then back at Crew.
“I’m angry at him too.”
“You can be.”
“I love him.”
“You can do that too.”
That broke something in her expression.
For one second, she looked like she might cry again.
Then she nodded and walked past him into the room.
Crew followed but stayed near the curtain.
Tom looked at Marin.
For once, he did not make a joke.
“Kid,” he said softly.
Marin stopped beside the bed.
“You knew.”
Tom nodded.
“Some.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“Why does every Donnelly man think silence is a gift?”
Tom flinched.
Crew did too.
Tom reached for her hand.
Marin looked at it.
For a moment, Crew thought she would refuse.
She did not.
She took it.
Tom’s fingers closed around hers.
“Because we are fools dressed up as protectors,” he said.
Marin’s face crumpled.
Just a little.
Tom’s eyes shone.
“I am sorry,” he said. “You deserved the truth. From him. From me, if he failed at it.”
Marin wiped her cheek with her free hand.
“I was twenty.”
“I know.”
“I would have helped.”
“I know.”
“You both made me feel like helping would have been a burden.”
Tom’s voice broke.
“You were never a burden.”
Marin looked at Crew.
He could not move.
Could not speak.
Tom squeezed her hand.
“You were family,” he said.
A tear slipped down her face.
She did not hide that one.
Crew’s chest hurt so badly he almost reached for the wall.
Marin looked back at Tom.
“Then don’t do it again.”
Tom nodded.
“I won’t.”
“Medical things. Hard things. Scary things. You tell me if you want me in your life. You don’t decide I’m better off outside it.”
Tom’s mouth trembled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Crew looked down.
The words were for Tom.
They were for him too.
Maybe mostly.
Marin leaned down and hugged Tom carefully.
Tom closed his eyes and held her like he had been waiting three years to apologize with both arms.
Crew turned away.
He did not get to watch all of it.
Some moments were not his to take.
When Marin straightened, she wiped her eyes again.
Then she looked at Crew.
“I need air.”
He nodded.
“I’ll walk you out.”
“I can walk myself.”
“Okay.”
The word landed.
Not cold.
Not warm.
She left the room.
Crew followed after a minute, because his father threw a tissue box at him and said, “Don’t let her leave alone if she doesn’t want to be alone, idiot. Ask.”
So Crew found her outside the emergency entrance, standing near the curb under the harsh white lights.
Not crying now.
Just breathing.
He stopped several feet away.
“Do you want me to stay here,” he asked, “or give you space?”
She laughed once.
Wet and tired.
“That was painfully correct.”
“I had coaching.”
“Tom?”
“Threw a tissue box at me.”
Despite everything, her mouth curved.
Then faded.
She looked up at the night sky.
No stars visible.
Too much hospital light.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said.
Crew’s throat tightened.
“That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It can be.”
She turned on him.
Anger back.
Good.
He knew what to do with anger.
Stand still.
Listen.
“It can be?” she repeated. “That easy?”
“No.”
“Because I know what everyone else wants. The town wants a story. Mrs. Paxton wants the fundraiser to stay cute. Your team wants you okay. Tom wants forgiveness before he scares us again. You want—”
She stopped.
Crew waited.
Her eyes searched his.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The question was soft.
Terrifying.
He could lie.
He could make it easy.
He could say he wanted her okay. Wanted the roof fixed. Wanted his dad stable. All true.
Not enough.
Crew stood under the hospital light with his heart exposed and answered like a man who was done surviving by leaving.
“I want you,” he said.
Marin went still.
He continued before fear could stop him.
“Not the town’s version. Not a hashtag. Not a second chance because people think we’re cute. I want you angry if you’re angry. I want you unsure if you’re unsure. I want whatever truth you give me, even if it’s no.”
Her eyes shone.
“Crew.”
“I know I don’t deserve another chance.”
“No, you don’t.”
The words hit.
He nodded.
“But I want the chance to become someone who would.”
Marin stared at him.
The automatic response did not come.
No joke.
No knife.
No frosting.
Just silence and the sound of cars moving beyond the hospital lot.
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Then Marin’s phone buzzed.
She looked down first.
Her face shifted.
“What?” he asked.
She turned the screen toward him.
A post from the Honeybrook Happenings page.
Not Dotty.
Someone else had taken over.
A screenshot from the livestream.
The moment after the roof hit one hundred percent.
Crew’s hand under the table, holding Marin’s.
Only partly visible.
But visible.
The caption read:
Roof saved. Hearts exposed. #TheViralBet
Crew’s blood went cold.
Marin stared at the screen.
Then looked at him.
All the fragile honesty between them cracked under the weight of public eyes.
Crew reached for the phone, then stopped himself.
No taking.
No fixing without asking.
Marin’s voice went flat.
“They posted the hand.”
“I’ll ask them to take it down.”
“Ask?”
“I’ll make—” He stopped. Corrected. “I’ll request. You can decide.”
Her laugh was bitter.
“My choice. Right.”
“Marin—”
“No. Not here.”
She stepped back.
The distance was worse than before.
Because for one second, he had been close.
Not physically.
Honestly.
Now the internet had shoved itself between them again.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another notification.
The post was spreading.
Crew saw the shares climbing.
Marin’s face closed.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“It’s my truck.”
“Then I’ll call Talia.”
“Marin, please don’t leave angry.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I am not angry, Crew.”
That was worse.
So much worse.
“I am tired of becoming public property every time I feel something.”
Then she walked back through the emergency doors, toward the waiting room, toward Mrs. Bell, toward anyone but him.
Crew stood outside alone as the hospital doors slid shut.
His phone buzzed again.
Group chat.
Wilder.
Wilder: Crew. Tell me that wasn’t us.
Crew stared at the message.
Then at the post.
Then at the doors Marin had disappeared through.
The roof was saved.
His father was stable.
The truth was out.
And somehow the night had still found a way to break something.
This time, Crew was not leaving.
But for the first time all week, he did not know if staying would be enough.