Chapter Fifteen
Marin
Fourth of July morning arrived wearing sunshine, bunting, and the emotional subtlety of a marching band falling down stairs.
By seven thirty, Honeybrook was already awake.
By seven forty-five, Honeybrook was already loud.
By eight, Honeybrook had developed a parking problem, a funnel cake smell, and three separate opinions about whether Mayor Halford’s bow tie was patriotic or alarming.
I stood in the back kitchen of Webb & Whisk, staring at six dozen fresh cinnamon rolls, and tried to convince my heart that this was a normal day.
It was not.
The bakery had reopened at six after passing inspection with only one stern note about ceiling tile monitoring and “continued vigilance,” which sounded like something a spy agency would put on a mug.
My mother had cried when the inspector signed off.
Talia had cried when the first customer walked in.
I had not cried because someone had to frost the cinnamon rolls with dignity.
Also because I had done enough crying in public-adjacent spaces this week to qualify for town infrastructure funding.
The bakery smelled like sugar, yeast, lemon glaze, and survival.
The floor had been mopped. The damaged ceiling tile replaced. The back kitchen sanitized within an inch of its life. The warning cupcakes were lined up in red, white, and blue rows near the register, along with a small sign Talia had made without permission.
WARNING CUPCAKES
Still emotionally nonrefundable.
I had allowed it because the roof was fixed, the bakery was open, and I was tired.
Also because it was funny.
Annoyingly.
From the front, the bell jingled nonstop.
Customers came in wearing flag shirts, parade hats, face paint, sunglasses, and the kind of cheerful holiday energy that made me want to hand out muffins and restraining orders.
Talia pushed through the swinging door with an empty tray.
“We need more lemon stars.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“They were supposed to last until ten.”
“It is eight-oh-seven.”
“I am aware of time.”
“Honeybrook is emotionally eating.”
“I am aware of Honeybrook.”
Talia set the tray down and leaned against the prep table.
She had on a red tank top, denim shorts, and a headband with two tiny stars that bobbed every time she moved. She looked festive and dangerous, like a parade float with blackmail.
“You heard from him?” she asked.
I lifted a spatula.
“Do not use pronouns like a woman entering a salon scene.”
“Crew,” she clarified, completely unbothered. “Have you heard from Crew?”
“No.”
Lie.
Not technically.
He had texted at 6:18.
Crew: Dad ate breakfast. Complained about oatmeal. Parade shirt located. No medical rebellion yet.
I had replied:
Me: Good. Hydrate him.
He had replied:
Crew: Yes, chef.
I had stared at that for two full minutes like an idiot with thumbs.
Then I had typed and deleted three responses, all of which contained too much softness and one that contained a smiley face, which was grounds for having my phone taken away.
Finally, I had sent:
Me: I’m serious.
He had sent:
Crew: I know.
No understood.
No disappearing.
No guessing.
Just I know.
Which was rude because it worked.
Talia stared at me.
I stared back.
“You have a texting face,” she said.
“I have a bakery face.”
“You have multiple faces.”
“I hate this town’s facial surveillance.”
“You love it when it’s accurate.”
“I love nothing before coffee.”
“You had two coffees.”
“Then I love nothing before emotional stability.”
Talia smiled slowly.
“Oh, this is bad.”
“No.”
“It’s getting bad.”
“No.”
“You’re saying no with less violence.”
I pointed the spatula at her.
“There is violence available.”
“See? Even that was nostalgic violence. Like a collectible spoon.”
I turned back to the cinnamon rolls.
“I have no idea what happens after today.”
The sentence left before I could make it sharp.
Talia went quiet.
Good.
No.
Not good.
Silence from Talia meant I had accidentally become honest.
She came around the prep table and stood beside me.
“Do you need to know today?”
“Yes.”
“No, you want to know.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
I dragged the spatula through cream cheese glaze.
It made a soft, smooth line.
I liked things that smoothed out when pressure was applied.
People did not.
People got complicated.
“He leaves Monday,” I said.
“He comes back.”
“He says he comes back.”
“Do you believe him?”
That was the problem.
I looked down at the cinnamon rolls.
The answer was no longer clean.
Three days ago, no would have been easy. Sharp. Safe. Correct.
Now?
Now I believed he wanted to.
I believed he meant it when he said he was tired of treating everything he loved like something he visited between obligations.
I believed he would communicate.
I believed he was trying.
I did not yet know if trying could survive distance, hockey, stress, fear, old habits, new pressure, and every silent instinct he had spent years practicing.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Talia nodded like that was an answer worth respecting.
Good friend.
Terrible development.
“Then don’t decide forever today,” she said. “Decide today.”
“Today includes a parade, his father being honored, the mayor possibly saying couple on a microphone, and Crew looking like Crew in public.”
“True. A lot of hazards.”
“And the Spitfires.”
“Major hazard.”
“And Dotty.”
“Municipal hazard.”
“And my mother, who has started texting me emotional wisdom like she’s subscribed to a heartbreak newsletter.”
Talia’s mouth twitched.
“Your mom is good.”
“She is inconvenient.”
“Same thing, often.”
The bell jingled again.
Someone in the front shouted, “Are there more Warning Cupcakes?”
Talia called back, “Emotionally or physically?”
The customer paused.
“Both?”
Talia pointed at me. “See? Demand.”
I handed her another tray.
“Go.”
She took it.
Then stopped in the doorway.
“Marin?”
“What?”
“For what it’s worth, I think the old Crew left. This one stays in rooms even when he’s uncomfortable.”
My chest tightened.
“I know.”
“That’s why you’re scared.”
I looked at her.
She softened.
Then ruined it by adding, “Also because he has thighs and accountability now.”
“Talia.”
“Going.”
She vanished through the swinging door.
I stood alone in the kitchen with cinnamon rolls, parade noise, and the terrifying suspicion that my best friend was right.
At nine fifteen, Mom arrived with a cooler of bottled water, three bags of ice, and the expression of a woman about to ask a question sideways.
“No,” I said immediately.
She stopped near the prep table.
“I only said hello.”
“You breathed maternally.”
“I’m your mother. All my breathing is maternal.”
I grabbed the water bottles and started loading them into the festival cart.
Mom watched me too carefully.
“How are you?”
“Busy.”
“That’s an activity, not an answer.”
“Everyone is stealing your lines.”
“Good. Saves me time.”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
Gently.
Too gently.
I sighed and leaned against the counter.
“I’m okay.”
She lifted one eyebrow.
“Okay,” I corrected. “Not fine. Not great. Okay.”
Her face softened with pride, which was excessive for vocabulary.
“That’s something.”
“I hate when people are proud of small emotional upgrades.”
“Then make larger ones.”
“Rude.”
“Maternal.”
I huffed a laugh despite myself.
Mom stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek.
I let her.
Because apparently holidays made people weak.
“Do you want him back?” she asked.
There it was.
Not sideways.
Straight through the ribs.
I looked down at the cooler.
Condensation slid over the white plastic sides.
“I don’t know if back is the right word.”
“What word is?”
I thought about Crew in the hospital lounge, sliding his truck keys toward me.
Crew in the livestream, asking without taking.
Crew on the veterans center lawn, changing the mayor’s note card.
Crew texting me where he was.
Crew saying he was coming back to Honeybrook whether I said yes or no.
“I don’t want what we had,” I said slowly.
Mom nodded.
“That broke.”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t want what the town thinks we are.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want to become a hashtag.”
“I would hope not.”
“But I…” I swallowed. “I want to see who he is now.”
Mom did not smile.
Good.
A smile would have made it too much.
“That sounds honest,” she said.
“It sounds terrifying.”
“Most honest things do at first.”
“Everyone keeps saying terrible wise things.”
“We’ve waited years. We’re making up for lost time.”
I groaned.
She kissed my forehead.
“Eat something before the parade.”
“I have.”
“Frosting does not count.”
I looked at her.
“Talia texted you?”
“Of course.”
“Coalition.”
“Family.”
I looked away.
The word hit differently now.
Family.
Tom had called me that.
Crew’s coach had told him to take care of family.
Crew had looked at me when he read it.
Not asking.
Not claiming.
Just aware.
Mom lifted the cooler handle.
“I’ll take this to the front.”
“Thanks.”
She paused.
“And Marin?”
I looked up.
“You can take your time. Even if he is learning. Even if Tom loves you. Even if the whole town chants. Your pace is your pace.”
My throat tightened.
“I know.”
“Good.”
She left.
I stood there a second longer, breathing through the weight of being loved by people who occasionally knew exactly where to press.
By ten, Webb & Whisk had sold out of cinnamon rolls, lemon stars, and patience.
The parade lineup started forming two blocks away. The streets were packed. Kids ran with flags. Someone had set up a portable speaker playing patriotic marches with too much brass. The smell of kettle corn drifted through the bakery doors every time they opened.
Talia and I closed the bakery temporarily at ten fifteen and loaded the festival cart with the remaining cookies, bottled water, and Tom’s special box: two cinnamon rolls, a turkey sandwich, an electrolyte drink, and a sticky note that said:
BEING BUSY IS NOT PROTEIN.
I had written it.
Then pretended I had not.
Talia saw.
Talia said nothing.
That was how I knew she loved me.
We pushed the cart toward the veterans center lawn, where the parade lineup had become controlled chaos with bunting.