Chapter Thirteen #3
He had told me the truth.
He had stayed.
He had held my hand because I asked.
He had let go every time I needed him to.
I did not know what that added up to.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe too much.
“You should sleep when Tom gets discharged,” I said.
Crew looked up.
“So should you.”
“I have bakery damage.”
“You have people.”
I turned.
He held my gaze.
Simple.
True.
Annoying.
“I do have people,” I said.
His expression softened.
“Yes.”
“You are not automatically one of them because you carried trays attractively.”
His mouth twitched.
“Attractively?”
“Inconveniently.”
“I’ll take that.”
“You will not.”
“Right.”
A tiny smile pulled at my mouth.
Crew saw it.
This time, I let him.
Just for a second.
Then I looked back out the window.
“What happens Saturday?” I asked.
His silence told me he knew I did not mean the parade.
Not only the parade.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Honest again.
I nodded, though the answer hurt.
“Okay.”
“But I know I want to talk before I leave Monday.”
My hand tightened on the windowsill.
“About?”
“Us.”
The word was soft.
Too large.
I did not turn.
“Is there an us?”
A long pause.
Then Crew said, “Not if you don’t want there to be.”
That answer slipped under every defense I had.
Because he did not say yes.
He did not say of course.
He did not hand me a romantic conclusion and ask me to step into it because everyone else was already cheering.
He left the door.
Again.
This time, I hated the door less.
“I don’t know what I want,” I said.
“I know.”
I turned then.
He was looking at me.
Steady.
Tired.
Careful.
“I know,” he repeated, softer. “That’s allowed.”
My eyes burned.
“You are becoming very hard to hate.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
For one second, the room felt like it held its breath.
Then Tom muttered from the bed, eyes still closed, “If you two are having a moment, keep it down. I’m healing.”
I slapped one hand over my mouth.
Crew looked at the floor, shoulders shaking.
Tom smiled without opening his eyes.
“Better,” he said.
By one o’clock, we watched the Channel Seven follow-up on Talia’s phone.
The roofing truck pulled up to the veterans center. Mrs. Paxton stood beside the donation board and, miracle of miracles, spoke only about the roof, the town, Tom’s service, Webb & Whisk’s emergency efforts, the Spitfires match, and the anonymous donors.
No hearts.
No romance.
No private hand.
Then the camera showed the first worker unloading equipment.
The roof was really happening.
Tom watched from the hospital bed, quiet.
Crew stood behind him.
I stood near the foot of the bed.
The video ended with Lacey saying, “Repairs are expected to begin this afternoon, ensuring the Honeybrook Veterans Center is ready for the Fourth of July weekend.”
Tom cleared his throat.
“Good.”
Crew’s hand landed gently on his father’s shoulder.
Tom covered it with his own.
I looked away.
Not because it hurt.
Because it mattered.
My phone buzzed.
I expected Talia.
Or Mom.
Or Mrs. Paxton with a privacy-forward emergency.
Instead, it was a message from my mother.
Mom: Bakery update: ceiling tile removed. Drying fans in place. Sanitizer coming. Also, I saw the hospital picture of you and Crew’s hand before it came down.
My stomach dropped.
Another message appeared.
Mom: I won’t ask. Just saying this carefully: make sure what happens next is what YOU want, not what the town wants, not what Tom wants, not what Crew regrets, and not what old heartbreak answers for you.
I stared at the screen.
Crew noticed.
“What is it?”
I looked at him.
Then back at the phone.
My mother had a way of sounding casual while opening a vein.
I typed:
Me: I know.
Then, after a second:
Me: I think.
Her reply came fast.
Mom: Thinking counts. Also eat lunch.
I almost laughed.
Mothers.
Universal threat.
I tucked the phone away.
Crew was still watching me.
I took a breath.
“After Tom gets discharged, I need to go to the bakery.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“And you need to rest.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Crew.”
His mouth twitched.
“I mean I will.”
Better.
I nodded.
Then the hospital room door opened.
Dr. Patel walked in with discharge papers.
Tom straightened like a man seeing parole.
Crew moved toward the doctor.
I stepped back.
The day shifted into logistics.
Instructions.
Medication timing.
Hydration.
Follow-up appointments.
No overexertion.
Crew took notes on his phone. Tom pretended to listen. I added questions Crew forgot because fear made him focus on the wrong details. Dr. Patel answered all of them with heroic patience.
By two thirty, Tom was cleared.
Crew went downstairs to get the truck.
I stayed with Tom while the nurse brought a wheelchair.
Tom looked at me.
“Your mother texted you.”
I blinked.
“How do you know?”
“You got the same face Crew gets when he receives wisdom he didn’t request.”
“That is very specific.”
“I told you. Same until different.”
I sighed.
“She said to make sure what happens next is what I want.”
Tom nodded.
“Smart woman.”
“Yes.”
“And do you know?”
I looked toward the window.
Outside, July sunlight burned white over the parking lot.
“I know I don’t want everyone deciding for me.”
“Good.”
“I know I don’t want Crew to disappear.”
“Good.”
“I know I’m still scared.”
“Also good.”
I frowned at him.
“How is that good?”
“Means it matters.”
The nurse arrived before I had to answer.
At the entrance, Crew pulled up in his truck.
He got out, helped with the bags, listened to the nurse, thanked her, and opened the passenger door for Tom while not fussing enough to get yelled at.
Growth.
Annoying.
Effective.
I stood near the curb, holding Tom’s discharge packet.
Crew looked at me over the truck roof.
“You coming with us?”
The question came gently.
Not expecting.
Not assuming.
A door.
I looked at Tom in the passenger seat.
He pretended not to listen.
Badly.
Then I looked at Crew.
“I’ll follow in my car with Talia.”
His face did not fall.
Good.
Maybe it almost did.
But he nodded.
“Okay.”
“I’ll come by later with food,” I said.
His eyes warmed.
“For Dad?”
“Yes,” I said. “And maybe for you if Talia doesn’t feed you first.”
“Understood.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He caught himself.
“Sorry. I mean, good.”
“Better.”
Tom called from the truck, “Are we leaving or is this curb part of my treatment plan?”
I handed Crew the discharge papers.
Our fingers brushed.
Not accidental.
Not quite intentional.
Somewhere in between.
“Drive not stupid,” I said.
Crew’s mouth curved.
“Fast?”
“No. Your father is fragile cargo.”
“I heard that,” Tom said.
“I meant it lovingly,” I called.
“Everyone does today.”
Crew looked at me one more time.
“See you later?”
The words were ordinary.
Small.
Huge.
I nodded.
“Later.”
He got in the truck.
I watched them pull away.
Not because I feared he would vanish before the end of the block.
I did not.
That was new.
That was terrifying.
Talia’s car rolled up beside me a minute later. She lowered the passenger window.
“Hospital pickup for emotionally compromised bakery owner?”
I opened the door and climbed in.
“Drive.”
“Bakery or emotional processing facility?”
“Bakery.”
“So emotional processing facility.”
I buckled my seat belt.
Talia pulled away from the curb.
For a minute, we rode in silence.
Then she said, “You okay?”
I looked out the window at the road back to Honeybrook.
The flags.
The July sky.
The town waiting with its repaired roof and its terrible boundaries and its weird, relentless heart.
“No,” I said.
Talia nodded.
“Progress.”
I looked at her.
She smiled faintly.
“You used to say fine.”
I leaned my head back against the seat.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe no was progress.
Maybe not knowing was progress.
Maybe staying in the question without turning it into a wall was progress.
My phone buzzed.
Crew.
Crew: Dad is complaining about seat belts and hospital socks. Safely on the road.
I read it twice.
Then typed back:
Me: Good.
A second later, I added:
Me: Make him eat real food.
Crew replied:
Crew: Yes, chef.
I stared at the screen.
Talia glanced over.
“What did he say?”
I locked my phone.
“Nothing.”
She smiled.
“That was a lie with cheek color.”
“Drive the car.”
She laughed.
I looked out the window again, but my hand stayed around the phone.
Because Crew had told me.
Because I knew where he was.
Because later meant later.
And because for the first time in three years, the distance between us did not feel like silence.
It felt like a road.
Still long.
Still uncertain.
But open.
Then another message came through.
Not from Crew.
Mrs. Paxton.
Mrs. Paxton: Parade rehearsal tonight is officially moved to the veterans center lawn. Privacy-forward. Roof-focused. No hearts. However, the mayor would like Crew and Marin to stand together for the thank-you announcement.
I closed my eyes.
“Talia.”
“What?”
“I need you to tell me it is illegal to fake my own death before the Fourth.”
“Technically?”
“No technicalities.”
“Then yes. Very illegal.”
My phone buzzed again.
Mrs. Paxton:
Mrs. Paxton: Also, wonderful news! The mayor wants to publicly thank “the couple who saved the roof.”
Talia felt the silence and glanced over.
“Oh no.”
I looked at the message.
Then at the road.
Then at my reflection in the window, tired and messy and very much alive.
The roof was saved.
Tom was home.
Crew was communicating.
And Honeybrook still had one more public disaster loaded and ready.
I typed back to Mrs. Paxton with one thumb and a level of calm that should have scared her through the phone.
Me: We are not a couple. Fix that before rehearsal or I bring the frosting knife.
Talia laughed so hard she nearly missed the turn.
My phone buzzed again.
Crew.
Crew: Mrs. Paxton just texted me. For the record, I support the frosting knife.
Against my better judgment, I smiled.
Not big.
Not safe.
But real.
And this time, nobody was filming.