Chapter Fifteen #2
The roof crew had already replaced part of the damaged section. The blue tarp was pulled back, and fresh materials sat neatly stacked. The center looked alive, busy, cared for.
My chest squeezed.
The livestream had done that.
The aprons.
The cupcakes.
The team.
The town.
Crew.
Me.
Us?
No.
Not yet.
Maybe not.
Maybe.
Absolutely not before breakfast.
The veterans center lawn was full. Folding chairs. Committee tables. Water stations. A small platform where Mayor Halford would speak before the parade rolled out. The convertible for Tom waited near the curb, polished red and gleaming like it knew it was important.
Tom sat in the shade beside Mrs. Bell, wearing his dress uniform jacket despite the July warmth.
My eyes burned immediately.
No.
Rude.
I had not agreed to emotion this early.
He looked thinner than he had in old photos. Older than the town wanted to admit. But proud. Straight-backed. Marine Corps hat resting on his knee. Mrs. Bell hovered with a water bottle and a glare ready for anyone who let him overexert.
Crew stood behind his father’s chair.
Of course he did.
Dark pants. White shirt. No apron. No joke. Just him, one hand on the back of Tom’s chair, scanning the lawn with that captain face like he could protect the day through posture.
Then he saw me.
Everything in his face changed.
Not publicly.
Not enough for Honeybrook to write songs.
Enough for me.
His shoulders eased.
Just a little.
Like I was not the problem.
Like I was relief.
Oh no.
I stopped walking.
Talia bumped the cart into my ankle.
“Ow.”
“Sorry,” she said. “The cart sensed yearning.”
“I will push you into a bush.”
“Try after the cookies are unloaded.”
Crew said something to Tom, then walked toward us.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Careful.
Like every step asked permission without making a scene.
I hated that I noticed.
I hated that I liked it.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
He looked at the cart.
“You brought supplies.”
“I am a useful person.”
“Yes.”
“Do not say that warmly.”
His mouth curved.
“I was going to say accurately.”
“Worse.”
Talia pulled a water bottle from the cooler and shoved it at him.
“Hydrate.”
Crew took it.
“You’ve all become aggressive about fluids.”
“Your family scared everybody,” Talia said.
“Fair.”
He opened the bottle and drank.
Smart man.
I lifted Tom’s box.
“This is for your dad.”
Crew looked at the sticky note on top.
His expression softened.
No.
Too much.
I held it out.
“Take it before you make that face.”
“What face?”
“Grateful lighthouse.”
Talia nodded. “Very real face.”
Crew took the box.
Our fingers brushed.
Not accidental.
Not exactly.
My body noticed like it was being paid.
He did not hold on.
Good.
Bad.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For Tom.”
“I know.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Still. Thank you.”
I looked away first because the parade had not started and I was already emotionally dehydrated.
Crew carried the box back to Tom.
Tom read the note.
Then looked at me.
Then lifted the sticky note to his chest like it had wounded him.
I rolled my eyes.
He grinned.
Good.
He was well enough to be dramatic.
Mrs. Paxton appeared at my elbow wearing her flag visor and the expression of a woman who had been rehearsing humility.
“Marin.”
“No.”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“I’m warming up.”
She nodded. “Fair.”
“What did the mayor’s card say this morning?”
“Exactly what Crew wrote.”
“Did you check?”
“Yes.”
“Did Talia check?”
“Yes.”
“Did Sutton check?”
Mrs. Paxton sighed. “Yes.”
“Did Frankie add anything?”
“No. She is currently under supervision near the snack table.”
I looked.
Frankie stood beside Sutton and Wilder wearing a shirt that said ROOF CREW FAN CLUB. Sutton was holding Wilder’s phone. Wilder was holding two cups of lemonade and looking like a man determined not to cause a second municipal crisis.
He saw me looking and lifted one hand.
Very carefully.
No phone.
No livestream.
I nodded.
He mouthed, Sorry.
I nodded again.
That was all I had for him right now.
It seemed to be enough.
He put one hand over his heart.
Sutton elbowed him.
Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands.
“The thank-you remarks are in ten minutes. After that, the parade lineup moves.”
“Good.”
“No couple language.”
“Good.”
“No hearts.”
“Good.”
“No surprise acknowledgments.”
“Good.”
She inhaled.
“There is one small issue.”
I closed my eyes.
“Shirley.”
“It is not my issue.”
“The issue exists near you, which is concerning.”
“The mayor would like Tom to stand for the applause.”
My eyes opened.
“No.”
Crew’s voice came from behind me at the same time.
“No.”
I turned.
He stood there holding Tom’s water bottle and looking like a man ready to fight a podium.
Mrs. Paxton nodded quickly.
“I agree. I told him no. But Tom said—”
“No,” Crew repeated.
I looked at Tom.
He was already watching us.
Too innocently.
Suspicious.
I marched over.
Crew fell into step beside me.
Not because we planned it.
Because apparently we now moved toward Donnelly stubbornness as a unit.
Terrifying.
Tom looked up as we approached.
“I see the committee has sent enforcement.”
“I am not committee,” I said.
“I am family,” Crew said.
The word landed.
Family.
He said it easily.
Not to claim me.
To claim responsibility.
Tom leaned back.
“Two against one is undemocratic.”
“You collapsed yesterday,” I said.
“Day before yesterday, technically.”
“Do not use calendars as defense.”
Crew crossed his arms.
“You can sit and wave.”
“I can stand for ten seconds.”
“You can sit and wave,” Crew repeated.
Tom looked at Mrs. Bell.
She lifted the water bottle.
“You can sit and wave.”
Tom looked at me.
I lifted the sticky note.
“Being busy is not protein. Standing for applause is not medical advice.”
Crew looked at me.
His mouth twitched.
I ignored him.
Tom sighed heavily.
“I fought for this country.”
“And today this country wants you in a chair,” I said.
Mrs. Bell laughed so hard she had to turn away.
Tom stared at me.
Then started laughing too.
Not hard.
Not enough to worry us.
Enough.
He lifted both hands.
“Fine. I’ll sit.”
Crew exhaled.
I did too.
Then Tom pointed between us.
“But you two are terrifying together.”
Crew froze.
I froze.
Mrs. Bell smiled into her water bottle.
“No,” I said.
Tom’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say couple.”
“You thought it.”
“I think many things.”
Crew looked at him.
“I see where I got that line.”
“From me,” Tom said proudly.
“Unfortunate,” I muttered.
The mayor stepped onto the platform at ten thirty.
The lawn quieted.
Crew stood beside Tom’s chair.
I stood on Tom’s other side because Tom grabbed my wrist and said, “You. Here.”
I went because arguing with honored veterans on national holidays felt unpatriotic.
Also because I wanted to.
The mayor tapped the microphone.
It squealed.
Frankie whispered loudly, “Internet safety for microphones.”
Sutton shushed her.
Mayor Halford began.
“Good morning, Honeybrook.”
The crowd answered with applause and scattered cheers.
“Before we line up for today’s Fourth of July parade, we gather here at the Honeybrook Veterans Center to say thank you.”
He looked at his note card.
I watched him like a hawk.
So did Crew.
So did Talia.
So did Sutton.
Honestly, the mayor had never been more supervised in his life.
He continued, “Thank you to Webb & Whisk, the Spitfires, the Fourth Committee, and every donor who helped save this roof.”
Good.
No couple.
No fate.
No hearts.
I felt Crew exhale beside me.
“Our veterans center will remain dry, safe, and ready to serve because this town showed up.”
The applause rose.
Mrs. Paxton cried.
Dotty cried.
Eddie cried but disguised it as coughing.
Mayor Halford turned toward Tom.
“And today we honor Sergeant Tom Donnelly, United States Marine Corps, retired. A man whose service did not end when his uniform came home. He has spent decades showing this town what steady looks like.”
My throat closed.
Crew went still beside me.
Tom looked down at his hat.
“He has coached our kids, helped our veterans, fixed what broke, carried what needed carrying, and reminded us that community is not a speech. It is a habit.”
The crowd stood.
All at once.
A wave of people rising from folding chairs and grass and sidewalks.
Tom stayed seated.
Because we had bullied him correctly.
But his hand lifted to his hat.
Crew’s hand moved to his father’s shoulder.
Mine found the back of Tom’s chair.
Not touching Crew.
Close.
The applause grew.
Not viral.
Not content.
Better.
Real.
Tom’s eyes shone.
He did not hide it this time.
“Allergies,” he muttered.
I leaned down.
“Terrible ventilation outside too.”
His laugh came wet.
Crew looked at me.
His eyes were bright.
I looked back.
There was no joke ready.
No shield fast enough.
The town applauded around us.
For Tom.
For the roof.
For everything that had been saved and everything still uncertain.
Crew’s hand was on his father’s shoulder.
My hand was on the chair.
Three inches apart.
Always three inches.
Then Tom reached up, grabbed Crew’s hand with one hand and mine with the other, and pulled both down onto his shoulders like he had decided subtlety was for civilians.
The crowd’s applause swelled.
My eyes widened.
Crew’s did too.
Tom looked straight ahead, smiling like a man committing emotional conspiracy under patriotic cover.
“Tom,” I whispered.
“Sit still,” he whispered back.
“I am standing.”
“Emotionally, then.”
Crew’s fingers rested near mine on Tom’s shoulder.
Not touching.
But close enough to feel the heat.
Close enough to remember the hospital.
The livestream.
The hallway.
The hand.
The choice.
The mayor finished his remarks, voice thick.
“Sergeant Donnelly, Honeybrook thanks you.”
The applause roared.
Tom nodded once.
Dignified.
Humbled.
Loved.
I looked at him and realized this was why I had said yes.
Not for the internet.
Not for the town’s story.
Not even for Crew.
For this.
For a man who taught steady imperfectly but honestly.
For a place that leaked and still mattered.
For a town that overstepped and then learned to step back.
For the chance to keep something good standing.
Crew leaned slightly toward me.
Not enough to touch.
His voice came low.
“Thank you for being here.”