“I owe the kids visibility for the reading fund.”
“They’ll twist it, B.”
“I know.”
Her shoulders sag, and I hate that I can’t fix it. Football taught me to bulldoze problems. This isn’t that. This is a woman trying to protect her quiet, and me being the noise she invited in.
“Let me handle it,” I say.
She glances up. “And what—charm them into silence?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“You can’t fight every battle for me, Crew.”
“Maybe not,” I say, voice low. “But I can stand next to you while you fight.”
Something flickers in her eyes—relief or love or both—and then she’s moving, pressing her forehead against my chest. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you.”
“That’s the idea.”
The rest of the day plays out like a movie that refuses to end. We fix the wobbly back bookshelf together. I hold the boards while she drills, pretending not to stare at the way her ponytail keeps slipping loose. We eat lunch on the porch steps, sharing one sandwich because she forgot to buy bread again. We argue about what counts as “classic literature.” She claimsPride and Prejudiceis superior. I counter withFriday Night Lights, and she throws a pickle at me.
The shop opens after lunch, and I stay because leaving feels wrong. I restock shelves, read to the kids, and let the town ladies corner me with questions about my “return to fame.”
Bailey watches from behind the counter, pretending to check receipts, her eyes soft but uncertain. I know that look.It’s the same one I used to give the scoreboard when time was running out.
When the last customer leaves, the quiet between us feels alive.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to say something reckless.”
“I was,” I admit. “But I’m saving it.”
“For when?”
“For when you’re ready to believe I mean it.”
Her breath catches. “You’re terrible at small talk.”
“I’m really good at bad timing.”
The predicted hurricane swells far off the coast, bringing with it a storm that rolls in just before closing. She locks the front door, and thunder hums through the floorboards. I’m standing too close, but she doesn’t move away. The air shifts, dense and electric.
“You should probably head home before the road floods,” she says.
“I’m already home.”
She shakes her head, half smiling. “You’re infuriating.”
“Persistent,” I correct, stepping closer. “Difference of semantics.”
“Crew—”
“Bailey.” I reach out, trace a line down her arm, and stop at her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers. “Tell me to go.”
