Page 68 of The Last Five Yards

Reese leans back on her hands, the same way Maren is sitting, their elbows almost but not quite touching. The breeze lifts the leaves above them, sending shifting patterns of gold across the blanket.

“She could talk for hours,” Reese says, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Sometimes I think she might actually run out of oxygen.”

Maren laughs softly. “It is impressive. I feel like I need to stretch before trying to keep up.”

Reese turns her head slowly, studying for a moment that lasts longer than it should. The light catches her cheekbone, softens it, and warms it. There is something thoughtful in her expression, something a little unguarded.

“Wanna know a secret?” Reese asks softly, as if someone else might be listening.

Leaning in close, Maren replies, “I always do.”

“I used to tell Rowan that we only had a limited number of words we could say in our life, and we didn’t know how many it was. But when we ran out, we would lose our voice.” Reese smiles at the memory. “Just to get five minutes of quiet.”

Maren shakes her head and laughs. “Callahan,” she exclaims.

“What? Sometimes a mom needs a break.” She looks over at Maren and smiles as the quiet settles over both of them. “Thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot to her,” Reese says softly. “It means a lot to me, too.”

Maren looks down at the blanket, her fingers brushing over the faded edge before she answers. “I am happy to be here.”

Reese’s breath catches in a way Maren almost hears. Not a gasp. More like a shift. A small recalibration inside her chest.

The old wind chimes next door move again with a gentle sound, and for a moment the world feels very still. Only the two of them on the blanket, close enough that if Maren shifted just a little, her shoulder would touch Reese’s.

Reese looks back toward the house, then at Maren again. “She really likes you,” she says softly.

Maren lifts her eyes to hers. “She is easy to like.”

Something in Reese falters, a quiet beat where her smile grows and fades all in the same instant. She looks away, then back again, almost like she is trying to steady herself.

The silence between them feels warm now, not empty. A shape they both know and recognize.

25

Data Recovery

Maren and Reese sit in the yard, the breeze soft against their face as the evening light slips lower across the fences. Reese glances down at her watch. Rowan has been inside far longer than any excited nine-year-old usually manages. She smooths the blanket around her legs before she rises.

“I should probably go check on the kiddo,” she says, looking down at Maren. “I will be right back.”

She heads toward the house and slides the patio door closed behind her.

For a moment, Maren stays where she is. It is the first real quiet she has had all evening. The familiar pieces drift back to her one by one: the yard, the sound of the wind chimes next door, the worn blanket under her hands. The way being here with Reese still feels like a memory she never stopped carrying. She smiles a little, certain now that the energetic chaos goblin might have staged the perfect excuse to leave them alone on purpose.

Maren lingers on the blanket, soaking it all in, letting her hands rest in the folds Reese left behind. The yard is warm in that early evening way, cicadas starting their steady rise in the nearby trees. A sprinkler ticks somewhere down the block. It is the kind of quiet she used to take for granted when she was younger.

Finally, she exhales and pushes herself to her feet. Waiting without doing anything has never been her strong suit.

She looks around and assesses the situation, choosing to start with the simplest tasks. Plates gathered into a stack. Wrappers folded and dropped into the trash bag tied to the fence. Juice boxes flattened and dropped into the recycling bin by the fence. The kind of clean-up that does not need much thought, which is exactly why it works.

The “Victory Picnic” sign flutters a little on its string as she reaches for it. Rowan had insisted on making it herself, which is obvious when Maren gets an up-close look at exactly how much glitter was used in this project. Maren pulls it down, smoothing the edges before gently folding it and setting it with the rest of the supplies. She silently curses the glitter left behind on her hands, knowing she is not going to get it off for a while.

When she reaches the old beach blanket, she pauses. Reese had been sitting right here only a few minutes ago, the imprint of her still soft in the fabric. Maren shakes it out gently and folds it into a neat square.

The yard grows quieter while she works. Light fades slowly behind the rooftops, turning everything gold for a beat before slipping into blue. When she finally sits down at the patio table, she notices her shoulders have loosened, her energy is lighter. She has done what she can. The rest is up to whatever Reese brings back with her through that door.

Her backpack sits next to her on the deck. She reaches for it.

She pulls the backpack onto her lap and unzips it, the familiar sound loud in the quiet. Her laptop slips easily into her hands, the silver still faintly scuffed from living in and out of swim bags, lesson plans, and endless meet schedules. It is not the original one, the one lost to the cannonball incident on Coach Hensley’s last day, but it has taken its place well enough.