Page 69 of The Last Five Yards

Maren sets it on the table and opens the lid. The screen brightens with a soft glow, reflecting the last threads of daylight fading behind her. Her spreadsheets load automatically, little color-coded tabs lining up like lanes before a race.

She clicks into the current swim season document. Notes from the last meet. Adjusted times. Stroke corrections she wants to work on with Rowan and the other swimmers at the next practice. All the small, steady pieces that make sense to her in a way the rest of her life sometimes does not.

For a while she just lets herself scroll, soaking in the times and splits. The rhythm of it is familiar and grounding. Her fingers move on their own, tapping through sections she has already memorized, checking things she knows are correct. It does not matter. The focus feels good.

When she leans back in the chair, the porch light clicks on overhead, humming softly. The glow settles across the table, catching the faint shimmer of glitter still stuck to her hands. She rubs her thumb along her palm, but the sparkle does not budge.

She exhales, quiet and slow.

The house behind her is still. The sliding door has not moved. Reese must be taking her time with Rowan, and the thought of that brings a small warmth to Maren’s chest.

She turns back to the screen and reaches for the track pad again. Her cursor drifts down to the edge of the spreadsheet, and that is when she notices it. One of the old tabs she never deleted. A workbook she has not opened in years.

Dive Season 2010 - Reese

It catches her, not enough to cause a reaction, but there is a shift.

She does not click on it. She only looks at it. The tab sits there like a small echo from another life, something she once carried so carefully she could not bear to let it go.

A soft sound breaks the quiet behind her. The sliding door opens.

Maren lifts her head as Reese steps back into the yard, carrying two glasses of wine.

Reese steps toward the table, the porch light catching on the curve of the glasses. She sets one down in front of Maren before taking the seat beside her. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that Maren can feel the shift in the air between them.

“She fell asleep while changing into her pajamas,” Reese says with a quiet laugh that sounds more fond than amused. “Out cold. I helped her finish getting ready and tucked her in. She barely even stirred.”

Maren smiles. “Long day for her. She is probably going to want that popsicle for breakfast.”

“You are not wrong,” Reese says, sitting back in the chair. “On either account there.”

For a moment they sit like that, the gentle kind of silence that does not press or ask for attention. Reese lets her gaze drift across the table, taking in the laptop, the open spreadsheet, and the color-coded tabs. Her eyes pause on the far-right side of the screen, and the pink tab.

Her brow lifts just slightly.

“I thought you lost that data,” Reese says, her voice soft, almost careful.

Maren follows her gaze and knows exactly which tab she means. The one she did not open. The one she never could manage to delete.

“Cloud backup,” Maren says. “Some things are too important not to back them up.”

Reese looks at her again, and it is not the quick, flustered glance she used to give when caught off guard. This one is steadier, quieter, and it holds something she does not know how to say out loud.

“Guess we only crashed the laptop, not everything on it,” she murmurs.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Maren’s mouth. “You definitely crashed it.”

Reese huffs a laugh and takes a slow sip of the white wine. When she sets the glass down, her fingers linger on the stem. She turns a little in her chair, angling toward Maren in a way that signals something heavier settling between them.

Maren’s body reacts. Not in surprise, but in understanding.

Reese is ready to talk.

And whatever comes next, spreadsheets will not be a part of it. Reese reaches over and gently closes the laptop, as she takes a deep breath. One, two, three, four.

Reese keeps her hand resting on the closed laptop for a moment, as if making sure it will stay that way. The porch light glows above them, pouring a warm circle of light across the table and the glasses between them.

She sighs softly, steady and weighted. Maren can feel it before Reese even speaks.