Page 200 of What We Break
My blood runs cold.
Fuck. Here it is.
I should have seen it coming. It's the pattern. We're coming up on seven years since Jared died, and Blake never handles the anniversary well. Five years ago, he disappeared into the Bitterroots for a week and came back with frostbite. Last year, he gutted the kitchen in four days, working until his hands bled so he wouldn't have to sleep.
He always tries to outrun the date. He thinks if he finds a war, the noise in his head will finally match the noise outside.
"You're joking," I say, but I know he isn't. This isn't just a camping trip. This is a death wish.
"Pay is good. Team is solid." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are bleak. "It's good timing, Reid. You and Laine are getting serious. You don't need your roommate hovering around. You need space."
He's saying the words, but there's a desperate edge to them. Like he's begging me to agree. Like he wants me to say,Yeah, get out, you're ruining this.
"No," I say.
"Reid—"
"No. Absolutely not." I step fully into the workshop. "You don't getto just run off to a war zone because things got a little awkward with my girlfriend."
"It's not running off. It's a job. And you're set here. You've got the girl, you've got the job?—"
"I don't have shit if you leave right now!"
The shout echoes off the tools on the walls. Blake freezes.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to calm down, but I can't. The fear I've been pushing down all night bubbles up.
"You think I'm 'set'?" I ask, my voice shaking. "Blake, I am holding it together by a thread. Laine is... she's pulling away. I can feel it. Tonight, she looked at me like I was a stranger. And if she leaves? If I screw this up?"
"You won't screw it up."
"I might. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the guy she needs." I look at him, pleading with him to understand. "You're my anchor, man. You're the only thing that's stayed steady since Jared died. If you leave for four months... I don't know if I can keep my head above water."
Blake closes his eyes. Not like he's thinking it over. Like I just pressed a lit match to his palm and told him to hold it.
I know that look. Cornered animal. Every muscle coiled toward the door, toward the exit, toward anywhere that isn't here with me blocking the way out.
I'm being selfish. I know I am. I'm the cage and the lock and the guy swallowing the key.
But if he goes back over there, he comes back less. Colder. Harder. Further from me than he already is, and he's already so far I can barely reach him on a good day. He thinks he needs the war to white-knuckle through the anniversary. He's wrong. He needs home.
I can't even let myself think about the other thing. The not-coming-back-at-all thing.
"Don't go," I say softly. "Please. I need you here."
Blake opens his eyes. The desperation's gone. What's left is worse — this flat, heavy nothing. Like he just shut a door behind his face and bolted it. My hands find the edge of the workbench and grip. This is so fucked up. We are so fucked up.
"Okay," he says roughly.
"Okay?"
"I'll tell Hatch no." He turns back to the workbench. Picks up the sandpaper. Runs his thumb across the grit like it's the most interesting thing in the room. "I'm not going anywhere."
The relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. I lean into the doorframe, shoulder catching the wood, and just hang there for a second. Let the frame hold me up because my legs sure as hell aren't doing the job.
I don't look at the guilt. I don't look at the fact that I just strong-armed him into staying in a house he'd chew his own leg off to escape.
I don't look at any of it.
