Chapter Eighteen #3
Frankie shouted from the dessert table, “What about whispering?”
Sutton said, “Frankie.”
Frankie lowered her voice. “Withdrawn.”
Marin looked at Wilder.
“And thank Sutton every day.”
Wilder smiled toward Sutton.
“I already do.”
Sutton rolled her eyes from across the room, but her face softened.
Marin nodded.
“Then we’re okay.”
Wilder looked like he might cry.
Crew said, “Don’t.”
Wilder sniffed.
“Allergies.”
“Townwide problem,” Marin said.
Wilder laughed and backed away before his probation could be revoked.
Crew looked at Marin.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for forgiving your friends.”
“I’m thanking you for giving him terms.”
“Terms are my love language.”
Crew went still.
Marin heard it too.
Love.
Not meant that way.
Maybe.
Her cheeks colored.
She looked down at her pie plate.
Crew did not say anything.
Better choice.
The sun set fully, leaving the tent lit by strings of warm lights. The night air smelled like cut grass, sugar, and distant smoke from fireworks the night before. People began to leave in slow groups, each one stopping to thank Tom or Mrs. Paxton or Marin.
Tom looked tired again.
Crew saw it.
Marin did too.
This time, she spoke first.
“Time to go home.”
Tom started to protest.
She lifted one eyebrow.
He stopped.
“Fine.”
Crew helped gather Tom’s things. Mrs. Bell collected leftovers. Eddie brought the golf cart around again. The Spitfires formed their quiet wall without instruction.
Marin packed the remaining pie in a smaller box.
Crew watched her tape the lid.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was a face.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“About pie?”
“About how you kept everyone fed this week.”
Her hands paused.
“Occupational hazard.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Choice.”
She looked up.
The tent noise thinned around them.
“Crew.”
“I know. Too sincere near dessert.”
“Extremely.”
“I’ll stop.”
“Not yet.”
His heart hit once.
Marin seemed surprised by her own words.
Then she looked away and finished taping the box.
Crew waited.
She handed him the pie.
“For Tom.”
“Yes, chef.”
Her mouth curved.
Then faded into something softer.
“I meant what I said upstairs.”
“So did I.”
“This is still slow.”
“Yes.”
“And Monday is still Monday.”
“Yes.”
“But tonight was…” She searched for a word.
Crew did not supply one.
She needed room.
Finally, she said, “Good.”
His chest tightened.
“Yeah.”
“Not easy.”
“No.”
“But good.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
They walked Tom to the truck together.
Not because the town was watching.
Because Tom needed help, and they both loved him, and that was the truth.
Tom got settled with Mrs. Bell in the passenger seat and leftovers secured in the back.
Before Crew climbed in, Marin touched his arm.
Brief.
Private in the shadow of the truck.
He turned.
She looked up at him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He swallowed.
Sunday.
The day before Monday.
“Yes.”
“For remote coach prep?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“What?”
“You’ll need internet that works and coffee that isn’t terrible. Bakery has both.”
Crew stared.
The offer was practical.
Also enormous.
“You want me at the bakery for the call?”
“I want you not taking a leadership meeting from your father’s porch while pretending humidity is Wi-Fi.”
His mouth curved.
“Practical.”
“Yes.”
“Not romantic.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t ruin it.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
He looked at her.
“I’ll be there.”
Her eyes softened.
“I know.”
Two words.
Small.
Enough to knock the breath out of him.
Tom called from inside the truck, “If you two are going to have a meaningful silence, do it where I can recline.”
Marin stepped back, rolling her eyes.
“Goodnight, Tom.”
“Goodnight, kid. Bring breakfast.”
“Protein,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Crew opened the driver’s door.
Marin started to turn away.
Then stopped.
“Crew.”
He looked back.
She glanced toward the tent.
Toward the town.
Then stepped closer and kissed his cheek.
Quick.
Soft.
Not hidden exactly.
Not displayed.
A choice in the open.
Crew froze.
The kiss ended before he could react.
Marin stepped back, cheeks pink but chin high.
“Drive not stupid.”
His voice came out rough.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She walked away toward Talia’s car.
Crew stood beside his truck, pie in hand, cheek burning, heart useless.
Inside the truck, Tom laughed.
Crew looked at him.
“Don’t.”
Tom held up both hands.
“I said nothing.”
Mrs. Bell smiled at the windshield.
“Smart woman,” she said.
Crew got in, set the pie carefully in the back, and started the truck.
As he pulled away from the veterans center, his phone buzzed.
Marin.
Marin: That was not a public statement.
Crew smiled so hard his face hurt.
Crew: Understood.
He stared at the word.
Then deleted it.
Typed again.
Crew: I know.
A second later, her reply came.
Marin: Goodnight, Crew.
He looked at the road home.
At his father beside him.
At the town behind him.
At Monday ahead.
And for once, the future did not feel like something he had to outrun.
It felt like something he could return to.
Crew: Goodnight, Marin.
He put the phone down and drove slowly through Honeybrook, careful with the turns, careful with the pie, careful with the life he was finally learning not to abandon.