Chapter Seventeen
Marin
The morning after kissing Crew Donnelly under fireworks, I learned there are two kinds of women.
Women who wake up glowing.
And women who wake up, stare at the ceiling, and whisper, “Absolutely not,” like their own lips have committed a misdemeanor.
I was the second kind.
Obviously.
My apartment over Webb & Whisk was bright with July sunlight, quiet except for the low hum of the bakery refrigerator downstairs and Talia’s text messages detonating on my nightstand.
I did not touch the phone.
Touching the phone meant acknowledging the world.
Acknowledging the world meant acknowledging last night.
Acknowledging last night meant acknowledging that I had kissed Crew Donnelly twice in public-adjacent darkness while fireworks exploded overhead and my best friend tackled a hockey player to protect my privacy.
Which, in fairness, was friendship at an elite level.
Still.
Absolutely not.
I rolled onto my side and pulled the pillow over my face.
My phone buzzed again.
Then again.
Then once more with the distinct violence of a person sending separate thoughts instead of one paragraph.
I reached for it blindly.
Talia.
Talia: Are you awake?
Talia: Are you emotionally alive?
Talia: Do you need coffee, legal counsel, or a fake identity?
Talia: Blink twice if kissing Captain Problem gave you fireworks-related complications.
I stared at the screen.
Then typed:
Me: You tackled Frankie. Do not act like I’m the dramatic one.
Her reply came instantly.
Talia: I tackled her for democracy.
Me: You tackled her because she had binoculars.
Talia: Exactly. Democracy.
I sat up, hair falling into my face, and looked around my apartment.
Same mismatched chairs.
Same tiny kitchen.
Same stack of bakery invoices on the table.
Same old floorboards that creaked near the bedroom door.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had.
Rude.
My phone buzzed again.
Not Talia.
Crew.
My heart did something that should have required a permit.
Crew: Coffee acquired. Dad ate breakfast. Mrs. Bell has declared oatmeal “not ideal but survivable.” I’ll be at the bakery at 8:30 unless you need more time.
I read it once.
Twice.
Then a third time because my brain was apparently doing a close literary analysis of emotional growth.
He had given me an exit.
Again.
Unless you need more time.
I hated that he was learning exactly where to leave doors.
I loved that he was.
Terrible development.
I typed:
Me: 8:30. Shelves are not moving themselves.
Then, because I was weak and undercaffeinated:
Me: What kind of coffee?
His reply came fast.
Crew: Yours: iced vanilla, extra espresso, light ice. Talia’s: iced caramel, oat milk. Mine: black, because I am apparently boring and safe.
I stared at the screen.
He remembered my coffee order.
Of course he remembered my coffee order.
Crew Donnelly forgot how to make phone calls for three years but remembered light ice.
Men were a plague.
I typed:
Me: Black coffee is not safe. It is a warning sign.
Crew: Noted.
Me: Do not say noted like an emotionally literate notebook.
Crew: I will arrive with coffee and no commentary.
Me: Better.
I put the phone down and stared at the wall.
Then smiled.
Small.
Accidental.
I immediately stopped.
Progress had limits.
By 8:20, I was downstairs in Webb & Whisk, wearing jeans, a pale yellow T-shirt, and my bakery apron tied tight enough to imply control.
The bakery was closed until ten. The front looked almost normal again. Chairs stacked near the wall. Pastry case cleaned. Display shelves pulled away from the back section where the ceiling tile had been replaced. Two industrial fans hummed near the kitchen doorway, drying the last stubborn corner.
The ceiling looked patched.
Not perfect.
But whole.
That word felt personal.
Talia arrived at 8:24 wearing sunglasses and carrying a bag of bagels.
“You look suspiciously vertical,” she said.
“You look like someone who tackled another woman in a public park.”
“I regret nothing.”
“Frankie?”
“Also regrets nothing. Sutton made her apologize to the grass.”
“I like Sutton.”
“Everyone likes Sutton. She has hostage negotiator energy.”
Talia set the bagels on the counter and removed her sunglasses.
Her eyes swept my face.
I braced.
Here it came.
The question.
The squeal.
The full interrogation.
Instead, she said, “You okay?”
Softly.
That was worse.
I looked at the patched ceiling.
“I’m okay right now.”
Her smile appeared slowly.
Not teasing.
Proud.
“Good answer.”
“Do not encourage my emotional vocabulary before coffee.”
“Too late.”
The bell over the door jingled at exactly 8:30.
Of course.
Crew walked in carrying a cardboard drink tray in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
My body reacted with traitorous efficiency.
First, stomach.
Then chest.
Then face, because heat climbed into my cheeks before I could issue a cease-and-desist.
He wore jeans and a dark green T-shirt, no apron yet, hair damp like he had showered early and left before it fully dried. He looked rested and not rested at the same time. Better than yesterday. Still tired around the eyes. Still him.
He saw me.
Stopped for half a second.
Not dramatic.
Enough.
“Morning,” he said.
Talia leaned toward me. “That was restrained.”
I elbowed her.
Crew pretended not to hear.
He set the drink tray on the counter.
“I come bearing caffeine.”
“Good,” I said. “Your safest quality.”
His mouth curved.
He handed me my coffee.
Our fingers brushed.
It was not an accident.
It was also not a move.
It was somewhere in between, and apparently my nervous system now lived there.
“Light ice,” he said.
“I can see that.”
“I know.”
“Do not be pleased with yourself.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“You’re failing quietly.”
“Progress.”
Talia took her coffee from the tray and looked between us with the expression of a woman watching two raccoons learn manners.
“I need to move inventory in the back,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” I said.
“I suddenly do.”
“Coward.”
“Facilitator.”
She grabbed a bagel and vanished into the kitchen.
Crew watched her go.
Then looked at me.
The bakery went very quiet despite the fans.
I took a sip of coffee to give my mouth a job.
Excellent coffee.
Annoying.
Crew’s eyes stayed on mine.
No crowd.
No fireworks.
No Tom.
No roof.
Just morning after.
Harder.
“About last night,” he said.
I nearly choked.
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“No?”
“We are not starting shelf-moving day with the phrase about last night. That is how people end up emotionally trapped near a pastry case.”
His mouth twitched.
“Okay.”
“Say something normal.”
He looked around the bakery.
“The ceiling looks good.”
I stared at him.
“That was too normal.”
“You asked.”
“You overshot.”
“I can try again.”
“Don’t.”
He smiled then.
Not huge.
Not smug.
Just happy to be standing in my bakery getting corrected.
My chest did the stupid thing.
I looked away fast.
“Shelves.”
“Right.”
I led him toward the back section where the display shelves needed to be moved against the wall. They were not heavy exactly, but they were awkward, and I had learned years ago that saving money by buying vintage shelving meant occasionally wrestling furniture with opinions.
Crew set down his coffee, rolled his shoulders once, and reached for the first shelf.
I pointed at him.
“Do not lift with your ego.”
He looked back. “My ego has no lifting privileges.”
“Good.”
“I was going to ask where you want it.”
I blinked.
He waited.
Patient.
Door open.
Always with the door now.
I pointed to the freshly painted patch of wall. “There.”
“Yes, chef.”
My mouth twitched.
He saw.
I hated that he saw.
Together, we moved the first shelf.
No drama.
No accidental collapse.
No tripping.
No coffee spill.
No slow-motion fall into his arms because I was not a woman in a shampoo commercial and we respected workplace safety.
We shifted the second shelf. Then the third. Crew listened when I said left. He stopped when I said stop. He asked before moving the antique cookie tin display because he had apparently developed a survival instinct around sentimental objects.
By nine, the bakery looked almost right.
By nine fifteen, it looked better than right.
More open.
Cleaner.
The back corner had space now, with the repaired ceiling above it and the shelves arranged differently because sometimes damage forced an improvement and I hated metaphors that arrived without being asked.
Talia returned from the kitchen with suspiciously dry hands.
“Wow,” she said. “You both moved furniture without kissing against it. Growth for everyone.”
I pointed at her. “Inventory.”
“Already done emotionally.”
“Physically.”
She sighed. “Capitalism is relentless.”
She disappeared again.
Crew picked up his coffee.
I leaned against the counter and looked at the repaired corner.
“You okay?” he asked.
I looked at him.
He winced slightly.
“Too soon?”
“No,” I said. “I hate it, but no.”
His mouth softened.
I let it.
For one second.
Then I looked back at the shelves.
“It looks different.”
“Yes.”
“Not bad.”
“No.”
“Just different.”
Crew was quiet.
Good quiet.
The kind that gave a thought room to finish.
“I thought I would want it exactly the way it was,” I said.
His gaze stayed on the shelves.
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe it’s better.”
The sentence landed in the room with far too much meaning.
Crew did not pounce on it.
Did not turn it romantic.
Did not make it about us.
He simply nodded.
“Good.”
My throat tightened.
“You are learning when to say less.”
“I have excellent fear-based motivation.”
A laugh slipped out.
Crew smiled.
Then his phone buzzed.
His face changed before he even checked it.
My chest tightened.
“Tom?”
He glanced down.
“No. Coach.”
Reality entered the room like a cold draft.
Crew turned the phone so I could see it.
Coach Gordon: Remote prep Sunday night at 7. Send agenda items by noon Monday if travel delays. Captain leadership packet in email.
Crew looked at me.
“Nothing bad,” he said.
Then corrected himself before I could.
“Nothing unexpected.”
Better.
I nodded.
“Good.”
“Remote prep Sunday. Monday in person.”
“You told me.”
“I did.”
The words sat there, small and huge.
He had.
He kept doing it.
The bakery bell jingled.
We both looked up.