Page 170 of What We Break
"Yeah," I say, kissing the top of her head. "Me too."
34
REID
Ipush open the workshop door and immediately smell whiskey underneath the sawdust and varnish.
Blake's sitting on his workbench, bottle of Jack Daniels next to him, staring at a mangled chunk of wood like it's personally offended him.
"Reid?" He turns, and I can see he's more than a little drunk. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here, remember?"
"Could've fooled me." Blake's voice isn't angry, just tired. "Haven't seen you in what, four days?"
Shit. Has it been four days? I think about it - spent Tuesday night at Laine's, Wednesday we went to that new restaurant downtown and I stayed over, Thursday was her day off so we drove to the coast, and last night...
"Sorry," I say, and I mean it. "Laine and I have been..."
"I know what you've been doing." Blake takes another sip from the bottle. "You don't have to explain."
But his voice is ragged. Raw. So for the first time in too long I look at him. Really look.
His hair's a disaster — and not the cute, rolled-out-of-bed kind.More like the hasn't-seen-a-pillow-in-a-week kind. His t-shirt's got that lived-in rumple, the collar stretched out, like he grabbed it off the floor three days running. And the circles under his eyes — those aren't just dark. Those are bruises.
"When's the last time you slept?" I ask.
"When's the last time you came home?"
Okay. Fair. I grab a folding chair, flip it around, drop into it across from him. "Blake, what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I'm working. Same as always."
"This isn't the same as always. You look like hell."
Blake laughs, but it's hollow. Just teeth, no warmth. "Thanks. Real confidence booster."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you ate a real meal? Slept in your actual bed instead of crashing out here?"
"I don't know. What day is it?"
"Friday."
"Then probably Tuesday. Maybe Monday." Blake sets the bottle down and rubs his face. "Time's been weird lately."
Time's been weird because I haven't been here. Simple as that. For weeks now I've been crashing at Laine's more than my own place — her couch, her bed, her kitchen that actually has food in it — and Blake's been alone in this house. Working himself into the ground while I played house with my girlfriend.
"Blake..."
"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Don't apologize for being happy. Don't apologize for having a life."
"But I should have?—"
"What? Checked on me? Made sure I was eating my vegetables and getting enough sleep?" His voice goes sharp, edged. "I'm not your kid, Reid. I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself."
Except he's not taking care of himself. He's sitting in his workshop at midnight, drunk and alone, looking like he hasn't seen sunlight in a week.
"You're right," I say. "You're not my kid. You're my best friend. And I've been a shitty friend lately."
