Page 59 of The Last Five Yards

They stand there for a moment, both looking out at the water, as if the lake can absorb everything they’re not saying.

Maren lets her gaze follow the slow ripple of the lake, the soft rise and fall of the water brushing against the shore. The quiet settles over her in a way she didn’t know she needed. Listening to Reese talk, really talk, hits something deep in her chest that she tries not to examine too closely. She feels the ache of it, but also something steadier, something that feels almost like a truth resurfacing. Maybe coming home isn’t always a choice. Maybe sometimes it’s a pull. A place that waits for you even when you’re sure you’ve outgrown it. She draws in a slow breath, letting the cool morning air sink into her lungs, and for the first time since yesterday’s practice, her heartbeat evens out.

Reese shifts beside her, toeing at a loose stone on the path. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you,” she says finally, voice low. “It just… came out.”

Maren doesn’t look at her right away. She keeps her eyes on the water, lets the morning light settle in her chest before she speaks. “You don’t have to apologize,” she says. “Not for telling me the truth.”

Reese goes still. A small pause.

Maren glances over, just briefly, just enough. “I’m glad you told me, “She adds, softer than she intends. “I… want to understand what’s going on with you. With Rowan.”

Reese’s expression shifts, subtle and vivid all at once. Surprise first, then something gentler, something that looks a little like relief. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

They stand there together for another moment, shoulders angled almost toward each other, the sunrise stretching long across the lake. It’s not closeness, not yet. But it’s something. A door cracked open.

22

Starts and Turns

The pool feels wider in the summer, like the heat stretches everything out. The afternoon light spills through the windows and across the deck in long gold lines, catching on the damp tile and the bright scatter of kickboards kids have already abandoned. Maren stands near lane three with her clipboard, watching the usual pre-practice chaos settle into something like a rhythm.

Mid-season always has a pulse. The parents cluster on the bleachers in familiar groups, trading coffee cups and magazines. A couple of the older kids stretch in a sloppy circle while someone’s playlist thumps too loud for the quiet of this afternoon. The pumps hum their constant drone. The air tastes like chlorine and warm water.

She feels steady here. That surprises her a little every time.

The double doors at the far end squeak open, and Rowan bursts through first with her backpack half unzipped again. Maren wonders to herself if that bag has ever been fully closed. Behind her is a small parade of kids, all wobbling under towels or shoving each other in friendly chaos.

Reese comes last.

She holds someone’s forgotten water bottle and nudges the door wider with her foot so another kid can slip through. Her hair is pulled into a quick knot that somehow still looks good, and her sunglasses are pushed onto her head like she forgot they were there. One of the younger kids hands her a granola bar wrapper, and she pockets it without saying anything. It should not be as charming as it is.

They make their way over, Rowan already mid-sentence about something Maren cannot decipher.

Maren crosses her arms and aims for neutral, maybe amused.

“So, the secret to you being on time is carpool?”

Rowan beams. “Obviously.”

Reese lets out a short laugh as she shifts the bag she is carrying from one hand to the other.

“Hey, it is one thing if it is me or my kid late,” she says, “but I cannot make other kids late too.”

Rowan nods like this is the most logical rule in the world. Reese ruffles her hair, straightening the crooked ponytail without thinking about it. Maren watches the gesture land, easy and familiar, and something in her chest tightens.

“Well,” Maren says with a chuckle, “it is working.”

Reese lifts her eyebrows. “Do I get a gold star?”

Maren pretends to scan her clipboard. “I will check the inventory.”

Rowan giggles and runs toward the locker room, already talking about who is going to get what kickboard. Reese watches her go, hands in the pockets of her shorts, a small smile tugging at her mouth. When she looks back to Maren, the smile softens.

Maren looks away before it can turn into a moment.

Rowan tears back out of the locker room. Per usual, they hear her before they see her. She makes her way to her lane, dipping each foot in as if she is checking to make sure the water will feel the same on each.

“Warm-up is four hundred yards, your choice,” Maren calls to the kids, raising her voice over the sudden splash of bodies hitting the water. Rowan hesitates at her lane, frowning at the number like it is a personal insult.