Chapter Eleven
Marin
I had survived a ceiling leak, a livestream, a public hand-hold, and a hospital hallway confession.
Apparently, the thing that finally broke me was Mrs. Bell offering me a granola bar.
“Sweetheart,” she said, holding it out with both hands like a peace treaty made of oats, “you look like you need sugar.”
I stared at the granola bar.
Then at Mrs. Bell.
Then at the hospital waiting room full of terrible lighting, hard chairs, and people trying not to look at me like they had just seen my heart screenshotted online.
“No, thank you,” I said.
My voice sounded normal.
That was impressive.
Inside, I was one notification away from becoming a weather event.
Mrs. Bell’s face softened.
Too much.
I could not handle soft.
Soft was how people got under doors.
“Marin—”
“I’m fine.”
The lie sat there between us, exhausted.
Mrs. Bell lowered the granola bar.
“You know,” she said carefully, “fine is not a blood type.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“I heard it on a doctor show.”
“That does not make it applicable.”
“I thought it sounded wise.”
“It sounds like something embroidered on a pillow by a woman with opinions about herbal tea.”
Mrs. Bell’s mouth twitched.
Good.
Humor was safer than pity.
The waiting room doors slid open behind me, and every muscle in my body knew Crew had come back inside before I turned.
That was unacceptable.
My nervous system needed to stop recognizing him like a password.
I did not turn.
Mrs. Bell’s eyes lifted over my shoulder.
Her expression changed from worried to pointed.
Great.
Crew stopped several feet behind me.
Not close.
Not far.
Painfully correct distance.
“Marin,” he said.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not that voice.
Not the one from outside.
Not the one that had said I want you like he knew wanting did not count but was finally brave enough to say it anyway.
I gripped my phone.
The post was still open on the screen.
Roof saved. Hearts exposed. #TheViralBet
The picture showed our hands under the table.
Only part of the touch.
Only the side of his thumb against mine.
Only one second stolen from a room full of celebration.
Only a moment that had not belonged to the internet.
My throat tightened again.
I hated that picture.
I hated that I remembered the warmth of his hand before I saw the caption.
I hated that the caption was not entirely wrong.
That was the worst part.
Public lies were easier to hate.
Public truths felt like theft.
Crew took one step closer.
I turned then.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
Good.
Terrible.
I wanted him to listen.
I wanted him to fight.
I wanted him to already know which one would hurt less, which was deeply unfair because I did not know either.
His face looked wrecked under the waiting room lights.
He had taken off the Captain Problem apron somewhere, but a faint line remained across his shirt where the neck strap had been.
His hair was mussed from running his hand through it.
His eyes were fixed on mine like the whole hospital had disappeared around us.
That was the problem with Crew Donnelly.
He made attention feel like shelter.
Until it became a cage.
“I asked them to take it down,” he said.
I laughed once.
Sharp.
Mrs. Bell flinched.
Crew did not.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“How generous of you to request privacy after my hand became fundraiser evidence.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’re right.”
“No.”
His eyes flickered.
I stepped toward him, anger finally giving my body somewhere to put the shaking.
“No, Crew. Do not agree with me like that fixes it. I am so tired of you being calm and reasonable while everything around me is on fire.”
“I’m not calm.”
“You look calm.”
“I know.”
“That is not a virtue right now.”
He took that.
Of course he took that.
I hated that he was taking everything because it made my anger feel like it had nowhere to land.
Behind us, Mrs. Bell made a strategic retreat toward the vending machines, clutching her granola bar and pretending she had suddenly developed deep interest in pretzels.
Coward.
Crew’s voice lowered.
“I didn’t know anyone got that angle.”
“I know.”
“If I had—”
“You would have stopped it?”
“Yes.”
“Like you stopped leaving?”
He went still.
The words hit the waiting room floor hard enough to crack something in me too.
I regretted them instantly.
Not because they were false.
Because they were cruel.
Cruel truth was still cruelty.
Crew’s face went pale, but he did not look away.
“I deserved that,” he said.
“No.” My voice shook. “Stop making it easy.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“Easy?”
“Yes. Stop standing there accepting every awful thing I say like that makes you noble.”
“I’m not trying to be noble.”
“Then what are you trying to be?”
His throat moved.
“Here.”
The answer was so quiet I almost missed it.
Here.
Not right.
Not forgiven.
Not heroic.
Here.
I looked away first because my eyes were burning again and I refused to cry under fluorescent lights near a vending machine that sold stale cheese crackers.
My phone buzzed.
I flinched.
Crew saw.
His expression changed.
Not guilt.
Something angrier.
“Turn it off,” he said.
I looked back.
“What?”
“Your phone. Turn off notifications.”
The command should have annoyed me.
It did annoy me.
It also sounded like someone putting a wall between me and an incoming storm.
“I need to know about Tom.”
“I’ll keep mine on.”
“And become my notification bodyguard?”
“If that helps.”
“It doesn’t.”
It did.
I hated that it did.
Crew took out his phone and showed me the screen.
“The post is gone.”
I did not want to look.
I looked.
The Honeybrook Happenings page had deleted it.
In its place was a new post.
No image.
No hashtags.
No hearts.
Just text.
Earlier post removed. We shared a private moment from tonight’s fundraiser without consent. That was wrong. The roof fund was fully raised thanks to community generosity. Please keep the focus on the veterans center and give the Donnelly family and Marin Webb privacy tonight.
I stared.
Then read it again.
Without consent.
That was wrong.
Give privacy.
My chest did something painful and unsteady.
“Who wrote that?” I asked.
“Dotty.”
I looked up.
Crew’s face was grim.
“I called Mrs. Paxton. She called Dotty. Dotty wrote it herself.”
“Dotty admitted fault publicly?”
“Yes.”
“Is she ill?”
“I didn’t ask.”
The corner of my mouth tried to move.
I did not permit it.
Crew noticed anyway.
His eyes softened.
I pointed at him.
“No.”
He stopped softening.
Mostly.
I looked back down at the apology post.
Comments were already coming in.
Most were kind.
Some embarrassed.
A few defensive.
One person wrote, It was a sweet moment though.
Dotty replied directly:
Sweet moments can still be private. I should have known better.
Oh.
That one got under my ribs.
Because Dotty was ridiculous and nosy and could turn a grocery receipt into a town-wide narrative, but she was trying.
Everyone was trying.
Clumsily.
Late.
Loudly.
But trying.
That did not erase the damage.
It did make my anger harder to hold cleanly.
I hated messy anger.
It gave people doors.
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He checked it immediately.
His face shifted.
Tom.
“What?” I asked, hating how fast the question came.
“Dad’s asking where we are.”
“Tell him we’re in the waiting room.”
Crew typed.
Another buzz.
Crew read it and closed his eyes briefly.
“What?” I demanded.
“He says if we are fighting, bring it closer because hospitals charge too much for drama he can’t hear.”
I stared at him.
Then a laugh burst out of me.
One awful, shaky, unwanted laugh.
Crew’s eyes opened.
The laugh turned into something dangerously close to a sob, so I covered my mouth.
No.
No crying.
Absolutely not.
Crew did not move toward me.
Thank God.
Or maybe not thank God.
He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, fighting every instinct he had because I had told him not to manage me.
That restraint became the thing that undid me.
The first tear slipped before I could stop it.
I turned away fast.
Too late.
Crew saw.
Mrs. Bell saw from the vending machine and suddenly developed an urgent need to face the pretzels again.
I wiped my cheek with the heel of my hand.
“I’m not crying because of you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m crying because I’m tired.”
“Okay.”
“And because your dad scared me.”
“I know.”
“And because my bakery ceiling leaked.”
“Yes.”
“And because I have not eaten anything that was not frosting-adjacent since breakfast.”
Crew’s brows drew together.
“You haven’t eaten?”
“That is not the headline.”
“It is a headline.”
“Do not become practical at me.”
“Too late.”
He walked to the vending machine.
I watched him go because apparently my ability to look away from Crew Donnelly had been compromised by stress, nostalgia, and poor nutrition.
Mrs. Bell patted his arm as he passed.
He bought pretzels, peanut butter crackers, and a bottle of water. Then he came back and held them out.
Not close enough to force.
Just offering.
“Pick one.”
I stared at him.
“You cannot fix emotional exposure with vending machine snacks.”
“No,” he said. “But you can be angry with protein.”
Mrs. Bell called from behind him, “That sounds wise too.”
I took the peanut butter crackers.
Crew’s shoulders eased.
Ridiculous.
I opened the package because eating was apparently easier than continuing to hold myself together out of spite.
The first cracker tasted like salt, peanut butter, and surrender.
I hated that it helped.
Crew sat two chairs away.
Not beside me.
One more chair of space than before.
A gentleman of emotional distancing.
Infuriating.
Mrs. Bell returned to her seat after determining we were not going to combust immediately.
For a few minutes, none of us spoke.
The hospital moved around us. Nurses at the desk. A family whispering in the far corner. Someone’s shoes squeaking. The low hum of machines beyond the doors.
I ate crackers.
Crew drank nothing because apparently he had bought water for me and fear for himself.
I tossed the bottle into his lap.
He caught it.
“Drink.”
He looked at it.
Then at me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
My eyes narrowed.
His mouth twitched faintly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
He opened the bottle.
Good.
Progress through hydration and irritation.