Chapter Sixteen
Family Dinner
Crew
I clock the noise before we even make it up the driveway—multiple voices, a dog barking, and something playing from a speaker inside—country music, maybe.
My training catalogues threats out of habit. Two cars are parked in the driveway, and lights are on in four of the six windows.
Emmie squeezes my hand. “You ready?”
No. “Yeah.”
She opens the front door, and the wall of sound hits me.
“Mom, we’re here!” Emmie calls, tugging me inside.
The house smells like garlic and something sweet baking. Photos cover the walls, the mantle, and the side tables. Emmie as a kid with missing teeth, Emmie in a graduation cap, Emmie covered in flour, grinning at the camera.
A whole life, documented. Celebrated.
I don’t have a single photo of myself before age eighteen. And that was just the entrance photo from Army basic training—I had a buzz cut, and a blank expression.
“Emmeline Rose Marshall.”
A woman appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She has Emmie’s eyes and Emmie’s smile, but right now, that smile is nowhere to be found.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Don’t ‘hi, Mom’ me.” Linda Marshall crosses her arms. “I have to find out from social media that you’re dating someone? You couldn’t pick up the phone?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Now is three weeks too late.” Her eyes slide past Emmie to me, curiosity winning over irritation. “And you must be the mysterious boyfriend.”
I step forward, extending my hand. “Crew Jensen, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”
She ignores my hand, looking me up and down as if scanning for defects, cataloguing weaknesses.
I’ve been assessed by drill sergeants, FBI psychologists, and hostage negotiators trying to read my tells.
None of them were as terrifying as Linda Marshall in a floral apron.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty, ma’am.”
She nods—neither approving nor disapproving—just… collecting data. “Full-time job?”
“Uh, yes.” I resist the urge to stand straighter. “I work for the FBI.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. “Steady income?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Benefits?”
“Full medical, dental, and vision.”
She hums and steps slightly to the left, circling me like a shark. I track her movement in my peripheral vision because that’s what you do when something’s circling you.
“401k?”
“Matched contributions.” I clear my throat. “Ma’am.”
“Do you drink?”
“Rarely.”
“Smoke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Drugs?”
“Never.”
She stops directly in front of me again, arms crossed. “Any prior marriages? Kids? Outstanding warrants?”
“No, no, and no. Ma’am.” I’m sweating. I’m actually sweating. I’ve had easier conversations with terrorists. Fuck.
“Mom.” Emmie appears at my elbow, and I resist the urge to grab her hand like a lifeline. “He’s not a job applicant.”
“I’m being thorough.” Linda doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Do you own or rent?”
“Own. Two-bedroom condo in Uptown.”
“Credit score?”
“Excellent.”
Another hum. She tilts her head, and something shifts in her expression—softer now, but somehow more dangerous. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
The question lands like a grenade. Damn, straight for the jugular.
I open my mouth and close it again. There’s no clean answer to that one, and something in Linda Marshall’s gaze tells me she knows it.
“To, uh…” I clear my throat and try again. “To treat her well, ma’am.”
The silence stretches on for what feels like seventeen years.
Linda’s gaze bores into me, as if she can see every half-truth, every technicality, and every feeling I haven’t yet figured out how to name.
Then her face breaks into a grin, and she pulls me into a hug before I can react—a full-body, arms-wrapped-tight-hug.
I freeze. Complete system shutdown. My arms hang at my sides like broken appendages.
“Oh, I like him.” She’s talking to Emmie over my shoulder while still squeezing me.
“He called me ma’am six times.” Linda releases me, patting my cheek as if I’m twelve years old.
“You passed. Dinner’s almost ready. Robert’s in the living room pretending to watch the game but really waiting to interrogate you.
Gavin’s around here somewhere, probably sharpening knives. ”
She disappears back into the kitchen, and I stand there, shell-shocked.
“She’s kidding about the knives,” Emmie whispers.
“Is she?”
“Mostly.” She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “You did good. Very formal. Very… ma’am.”
“I panicked.”
“I noticed.” She takes my hand, squeezing it. “Come on. My dad’s way less intense. He’ll just ask about hockey and stare at you judgmentally.”
“Great.”
“Welcome to the Marshalls.”
The living room is small but comfortable—worn couch, recliners, and a TV mounted above a fireplace cluttered with photos. A man in his fifties looks up from a hockey game, reading glasses perched on his nose.
“Dad, this is Crew. Crew, this is my dad, Robert.”
He stands, and I clock the assessment immediately. Former military, maybe. Or law enforcement. He’s got that look—sizing me up, checking my posture, my handshake, the way I hold myself.
“Sir.” I shake his hand firmly.
“FBI, right? Emmie mentioned.”
“Yes, sir. Tactical unit out of Dallas.”
His eyebrows lift. “Tactical. That’s the door-kicking stuff?”
“Among other things.”
“He’s being modest,” Emmie says. “He does all kinds of dangerous things he won’t tell me about.”
Robert’s mouth twitches. “Smart man. Have a seat, Crew. You watch hockey?”
“When I can.”
“Good.” He gestures to the recliner next to his. “Stars are down by two. Defense is a mess.”
And just like that, I’m watching hockey with Emmie’s dad while she hovers in the doorway, looking pleased and nervous in equal measure.
“Go help your mother,” Robert says without looking away from the screen. “We’re fine.”
Emmie hesitates.
“Go on, sweetheart. I’m not going to bite him.”
She catches my eye, silently asking if I’m okay. I nod, and she disappears toward the kitchen.
For a few minutes, we just watch the game. I’m hyperaware of everything—the worn fabric of the recliner, the family photos in my peripheral vision, the normalcy of it all. Sitting in a living room. Watching TV. With someone’s father.
I’ve never done this before—any of it. It’s surreal—the kind of thing you see in movies and chuckle about. But there’s no chuckling now, not when it’s real life.
“So.” Robert mutes a commercial. “Emmie says you were military before the Bureau.”
“Army. Six years.”
“See any action?”
“Some.”
He nods slowly, not pushing, which I appreciate. “My brother was Army. Two tours in Iraq. Never talked about it much either.” He unmutes the TV and adds, almost as an afterthought, “You seem solid, Crew. I can tell these things.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod.
Then someone in the doorway catches my eye, and Gavin Marshall walks in.
I met him briefly when Emmie moved in—tall, built like a linebacker, with the same protective energy as a junkyard dog. He spots me in his dad’s recliner, and his expression flattens.
“Jensen.”
“Marshall.”
“Gavin, be nice,” Robert says.
“I’m always nice.” He drops onto the couch, not taking his eyes off me. “So. Still living with my sister.”
“Still.”
“How’s that going?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Gavin.” Robert’s voice carries a warning.
Gavin holds up his hands. “I’m just asking questions. Getting to know the guy who’s sleeping down the hall from my baby sister.”
“Different rooms,” I say evenly.
“Uh-huh.”
The tension is thick enough to cut, but I don’t look away. I’ve stared down men with weapons. Emmie’s brother doesn’t scare me.
Okay, he doesn’t scare me much.
“Dinner!” Linda calls from the kitchen, and I’ve never been more grateful for food in my entire life.
* * *
The dining table is chaos.
Platters are passed back and forth. Everyone is talking at once. Linda piles food on my plate before I can stop her. Gavin watches me like he’s waiting for me to slip up. Robert asks about the Star’s chances this season. Emmie’s hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing once.
I’m drowning. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like… something else. Something I don’t have a word for.
“So, Crew.” Linda settles into her seat, finally done serving everyone else. “Tell us about yourself. Emmie’s been very secretive.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“He’s being modest again,” Emmie says. “He’s basically a superhero.”
“I’m not—”
“He diffuses bombs. He rescues hostages. He kicks down doors.”
“That’s a very simplified version of—”
“Tell them about the bank thing.”
I shoot her a look. She grins back, completely unrepentant.
“What bank thing?” Linda leans forward.
I sigh. “It was a hostage situation a few years ago. Guy with a gun, three hostages, standard negotiation wasn’t working.”
“So what happened?”
“We breached. Neutralized the threat.” I shrug. “Everyone went home.”
The table falls silent. Gavin leans forward, looking perplexed.
“You make it sound so simple,” Robert says.
“It wasn’t. But that’s the job.”
“He got shot,” Emmie adds.
“Emmie.”
“What? You did. He has a scar and everything. Very rugged.”
Linda’s hand goes to her chest. “You got shot?”
“It was a graze. Barely counts.”
“Show them,” Emmie says.
“I’m not showing them.”
“He won’t show anyone. I’ve only seen it once, and that was by accident.”
Gavin is watching me differently now—less hostile, more… assessing. It’s as if he’s recalculating something.
“What about the car chase?” Emmie prompts. “Tell them about the car chase.”
“There have been a few car chases.”
“The one with the helicopter.”
Robert sets down his fork. “There was a helicopter?”
I tell them—not the classified parts, but enough. I recount the pursuit that went wrong, the suspect who tried to flee on the highway, and the helicopter support that helped us box him in. I present it the way I’d write it in a report: facts, sequence of events, outcome.
They’re staring at me like I just said I wrestled a bear.
“Your boyfriend is a badass, Em,” Gavin finally says, a slight grin tugging at his lips.
Emmie beams—actually beams, as if she’s proud of me, like I’m something worth being proud of.
“I know,” she replies.
Something cracks open in my chest. I don’t know how to handle it, so I take a bite of mashed potatoes and pretend I’m fine.
* * *
After dinner, Linda refuses to let me help clean up. “You’re a guest. Guests don’t do dishes.”
“I don’t mind—”
“Go.” She points to the living room. “Robert wants to show you something in the garage anyway. Go. Bond.”
Robert’s “something” turns out to be a 1969 Camaro he’s been restoring for the past five years. We stand in his garage, surrounded by tools and car parts, as he walks me through every modification, every challenge, every small victory.
I don’t know much about cars, but I know about projects—about building something with your hands and the patience it takes to make something whole.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.
“She’s a pain in my ass,” he replies, but he’s smiling. “You ever work on cars?”
“A little, not really. But I’d like to learn.”
He looks at me for a long moment and then nods, as if I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
“Come back next Sunday. I’ll teach you a few things.”
“I’d like that.”
When we walk back inside, Emmie is in the kitchen with her mom, drying dishes while Linda washes. They’re laughing about something, and Emmie’s got a dish towel over her shoulder and soap suds on her wrist.
She looks up when I enter and smiles.
In that moment, I realize—with a clarity that knocks the breath out of me—that I want this.
Not just her. This. The loud dinners, the family photos, the garage projects, and the Sunday visits. A life full of people who show up for each other—who hug without warning, pile food on your plate, and argue about hockey.
I’ve never wanted anything like this before.
I didn’t know I was allowed to.
* * *
The drive home is quiet.
Emmie’s got her feet tucked under her, her head against the window, smiling to herself.
“That went well,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“My mom loves you. She was asking when you’re coming back even before we left the driveway.”
“Your dad invited me to work on the Camaro.”
She turns to look at me. “He did?”
“Next Sunday.”
“Crew.” Her voice is soft. “He doesn’t invite anyone to work on that car. That’s, like, his sacred space.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“And Gavin called you a badass. That’s basically a stamp of approval from him.”
I almost smile. Almost.
But the thing cracking open in my chest is widening, and I don’t know how to close it. I don’t know if I want to. And that terrifies me more than anything I’ve faced in the field.
When we get home, I help her out of the car, walk her to the door, and stand in our living room while she kicks off her shoes and stretches.
“That was fun,” she says. “Thanks for being such a good sport. I know my family is a lot.”
“They’re great.”
“Yeah?” She’s watching me, her head tilted. “You okay? You got quiet.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I’m already backing toward the hallway. “I’m going to turn in.”
“Oh. Okay.” She looks confused but doesn’t push. “Goodnight, Crew.”
“Goodnight.”
I make it to my room, close the door, and stand there in the dark. My hands are shaking.
I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to want things I’ve never had. I don’t know how to be the guy who shows up on Sundays, works on cars with someone’s dad, and gets hugged by someone’s mom like it’s nothing.
That’s not who I am.
I sit on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, and try to remember how to breathe.
Emmie Marshall is ruining me.
The worst part? I’m starting to think I want her to.