Chapter Twenty
Crew
Crew Donnelly arrived at Webb & Whisk on Monday morning with coffee, breakfast sandwiches, and a plan folded in his back pocket like a man carrying evidence of personal growth.
He hated how nervous that made him.
Not the leaving.
No, that was a lie.
The leaving made him nervous too.
Leaving Honeybrook had always been easy to confuse with escape. A road, a bag, a schedule, a reason. Hockey had given him a thousand reasons over the years, and he had used every one like a clean exit.
This morning was different.
This morning, his truck was packed for campus, his captain leadership packet was on the passenger seat, his father had already eaten eggs under Mrs. Bell’s supervision, and Marin Webb was waiting inside her bakery because he had told her he would stop before he left.
Not vanished.
Not implied.
Not left a silence for her to translate.
Told her.
Then showed up.
A person could start there.
He parked in the alley behind the bakery at 7:58.
Two minutes early.
He sat for one of them.
The bakery’s back door was propped open with a rubber wedge. No flour bucket. Progress everywhere. The repaired ceiling line was not visible from outside, but Crew knew it was there, whole and slightly brighter than the rest.
A repaired place did not become untouched.
It became stronger if people kept checking it.
He looked at the paper bag on the passenger seat.
Two sandwiches.
One coffee for him.
One iced vanilla, extra espresso, light ice for Marin.
One iced caramel oat milk for Talia because Talia had become the kind of person it was dangerous not to feed.
His phone buzzed.
Dad.
Dad: You stop by the bakery yet?
Crew smiled.
Crew: Outside now.
Dad: Good. Don’t be dramatic.
Crew stared at the message.
Then typed:
Crew: You gave a speech about not wasting life while wearing a hospital bracelet.
His father replied:
Dad: Good speech.
Crew laughed quietly.
Another message came.
Dad: Drive smart. Call when you stop. Come back when you can. Not because I’m old. Because you mean it.
Crew’s throat tightened.
He typed:
Crew: I mean it.
Tom sent back:
Dad: Then go say goodbye correctly.
Crew put the phone away, grabbed the coffees and bag, and got out.
Marin stood in the back kitchen when he walked in.
She wore jeans, a soft green shirt, and a Webb & Whisk apron dusted lightly with flour. Her hair was up, but not carefully. One curl had escaped near her cheek. She was arranging blueberry muffins on a tray with the concentration of a woman performing surgery on carbohydrates.
She looked up.
The morning rearranged itself around her.
“Hi,” she said.
Crew stopped just inside the door.
“Hi.”
A full three seconds passed.
Then Talia appeared from the front, looked between them, took the caramel coffee from the tray, and said, “Painful. Both of you. Extremely painful.”
Marin did not look away from Crew.
“Good morning to you too.”
Talia pointed at Crew with her straw.
“Did you bring protein?”
“Yes.”
“Acceptable.”
She grabbed her coffee and the smaller sandwich bag.
“This one mine?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I will be in the front pretending not to hear things. I will fail, but spiritually, I’m trying.”
“Talia.”
“Leaving.”
She disappeared through the swinging door.
Crew set Marin’s coffee and sandwich on the prep table.
“Breakfast.”
She looked at the bag.
Then at him.
“You’re learning.”
“I have strong motivation.”
“Fear?”
“Mostly you.”
Her eyes softened before she could stop them.
Then she looked down and fussed with the muffin tray.
“Dangerous answer before eight.”
“I know.”
“You said it anyway.”
“Yes.”
The word settled.
Honest.
Not slick.
Not trying to win.
Marin reached for the coffee and took a sip.
Her eyes closed for half a second.
Crew loved that half second.
He loved that she trusted the coffee to be right.
He loved that this was a thing he could do now: show up with a coffee and not mistake it for absolution.
“It’s good,” she said.
“Good.”
“You look packed.”
“I am.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
Crew saw it.
He hated it.
He was grateful he saw it.
“I’m leaving after this,” he said.
“I know.”
“Campus by midafternoon if traffic behaves.”
“I know.”
“I’ll stop around halfway and text you.”
She lifted her eyes.
“You don’t have to narrate every mile.”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to?”
“If you want.”
Her mouth pressed together.
The question hung there.
Do you want?
Not need.
Not deserve.
Want.
She set the coffee down.
“I want to know you’re safe.”
Crew nodded.
“Then I’ll tell you.”
Her throat moved.
“Good.”
He wanted to touch her.
He did not.
The wanting had become something he could hold without obeying immediately.
That felt like progress and torture.
Marin pointed at his back pocket.
“What’s that?”
Crew froze.
“What?”
“You have paper in your pocket.”
Of course she noticed.
Marin Webb could notice a secret through denim.
He pulled out the folded sheet.
“My copy.”
“Of what?”
“The anti-silence plan.”
Her eyes flicked to the pocket of her apron.
He saw the outline there.
She had his note.
She had not said whether she had read it.
That was okay.
Mostly.
“Did you read yours?” he asked.
She held his gaze for a second.
Then nodded.
“I read it last night.”
Crew’s chest tightened.
“Okay.”
“That was not okay material.”
He waited.
Marin reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the folded paper.
His handwriting looked even worse in her hand.
She unfolded it.
He knew what it said.
He had written it at his father’s kitchen table after Tom went to sleep, crossing out three dramatic sentences, two apologies that were secretly pleas, and one line that said I love you because it was true but too big for a paper meant to build trust, not force an answer.
The final version had been simple.
Things I know so far:
I leave Monday morning.
I have remote prep Sunday night and captain meetings Monday.
I will text when I leave Honeybrook.
I will text at the halfway stop.
I will text when I arrive.
I will call Tom Monday night.
I will call you Monday night if you want me to.
I am coming back to Honeybrook after meetings.
I do not know the exact day yet.
I will tell you when I know.
I am not asking you to decide what we are before I leave.
I am asking to keep telling the truth.
I want to know you now.
I want you to know me now.
I am sorry for every silence that made you guess.
No more silence as protection.
— Crew
Marin looked at the paper.
Then at him.
“You crossed things out.”
His stomach dropped.
She had noticed the indentations.
“I did.”
“What things?”
He could lie.
No.
He could dodge.
No.
He looked at the coffee cup between them.
“Things that were true but would have asked too much from you before I left.”
Her face changed.
Not guarded.
Still.
“What kind of things?”
Crew took a breath.
“The kind I want to say in person when saying them doesn’t feel like I’m handing you a suitcase and asking you to carry it while I drive away.”
The bakery went quiet.
Even the fans seemed to lower.
Marin’s eyes shone.
“That was very nearly poetic.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
Her mouth trembled once, fighting a smile or something else.
She folded the note carefully.
“I liked the plan.”
Relief moved through him so fast he almost reached for the table.
He stayed still.
“I’m glad.”
“I hated that I liked it.”
“That sounds right.”
“I liked knowing.”
“I’ll keep doing that.”
Her eyes lifted.
“You keep saying that.”
“Yes.”
“Make it boring.”
His throat tightened.
“I will.”
She looked down at the note again.
Then tucked it back into her apron pocket.
“Monday night call,” she said.
Crew nodded.
“If I want.”
“Yes.”
“I want.”
The words landed soft and hard at once.
Crew did not smile.
Not because he was not happy.
Because this mattered too much to make bright too quickly.
“Okay.”
“That was the right okay,” she said.
His mouth curved.
“I’m improving.”
“Moderately.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You will not take it. You will respectfully receive it.”
He laughed.
Talia yelled from the front, “That sounded healthy!”
Marin closed her eyes.
“I’m firing her today.”
“You need her.”
“I know.”
“That must be frustrating.”
“Deeply.”
They stood there with coffee, breakfast, muffins, and the road waiting outside.
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He checked it.
Sutton.
Sutton: Wilder wants to come say goodbye and has been denied. The team says drive safe. Frankie says “shingle and ready to mingle” and has been muted.
Crew showed Marin.
She read it.
“Frankie needs help.”
“Yes.”
“Wilder wanted to say goodbye?”
“Apparently.”
Marin looked toward the front.
The bakery was quiet for the moment, the morning rush not yet fully started.
“You can tell him thank you from me.”
Crew’s brows lifted.
“For what?”
“For trying. Loudly. Badly. But trying.”
Crew typed the message into the group chat.
Crew: Marin says thank you for trying. Loudly. Badly. But trying.
The response was instant.
Wilder: I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE HONORED TO BE ACCURATELY INSULTED.
Sutton: Lowercase.
Wilder: sorry. I have never been more honored to be accurately insulted.
Frankie: I am emotionally shingled.
Cooper: Muted means muted.
Hayes: It did not take.
Beck: obviously
Junie: Drive snacks are in your truck bed cooler. Do not argue.
Milo: Safe trip. Come back.
Crew stared at the last line.
Come back.
Simple.
From Milo.
From the team.
From Honeybrook.
From himself.
Marin read it too.
Her face softened.
“You have good people.”
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
His eyes found hers.
“Yes.”
“Some of them overlap now.”
“Yes.”
“That is logistically concerning.”
“Very.”
Her smile appeared.
Small.
Real.
His chest ached with it.
Crew reached into the paper bag and handed her the sandwich.
“Eat before the muffins overthrow you.”
She looked at the sandwich.
Then at him.
“Bossy.”
“Correctly?”
“Occasionally.”
“I’ll take occasionally.”
She unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite because she was apparently willing to give him that small mercy before he left.
They ate standing in the back kitchen while the bakery woke around them.
A delivery truck rumbled outside.
The front bell jingled twice.