Page 202 of What We Break
A minute later she slides into the booth next to Jamila, smelling like chalk dust and expensive cologne. She kisses Jamila on the temple—casual, possessive, easy—and sets a bowl of pretzels down in front of me.
"You look like you need carbs, Mitchell," Kerry says, stealing a sip of Jamila's martini. "And maybe a hug. But eat the pretzel first."
I smile, but it feels wobbly. "Thanks, Kerry."
I watch them for a second. The way Kerry’s arm automatically drapes over the back of the booth behind Jamila. The way Jamila leansinto it without even thinking. They are so different—Jamila is all sharp edges and corporate strategy, Kerry is soft flannel and loud laughter, but together they look like they could hold off an army. They're a fortress.
That’s what I wanted. I wanted to be part of a fortress.
"How's the game?" Jamila asks, wiping a smudge of blue chalk off Kerry's cheek.
"Crushing it. Gary thinks he can bank shot. Gary is wrong." Kerry turns her focus to me, her grin fading into that warm, steady look that makes me feel like I could tell her anything, and she would never share it. "So? Did we decide if we're burying the boyfriend or just maiming him?"
"We've downgraded to justifiable homicide," Jamila says dryly. "He's leaking state secrets to the enemy."
Kerry winces. "Oof. The roommate again?"
"The roommate," I confirm. Blake is more than that, I know it, but right now, I'm feeling a little petty and 'the roommate' gives me a tiny burst of satisfaction when I say it. If only it were that simple though. You can kick out a roommate.
It doesn't escape me that Jamila told Kerry about my romantic life, and about Blake. But it doesn't bug me because Kerry is Jamila's person. Of course she'd share.
Reid shared with Blake. Blake is Reid's person.
Not me.
"You know," Kerry says, tilting her head. "I'm usually a 'more the merrier' kind of gal. But this guy sounds like a thundercloud in a flannel shirt. If he can't get on board with you, he's either blind or stupid."
"He's not stupid," I say. "He's just..."
"Hostile?" Jamila suggests.
"Broken," I say. The word surprises me, but as soon as it's out, I know it's true.
The bell above the door chimes. Kerry, out of habit, glances up to see who's entering her domain. Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Speaking of thunderclouds," she murmurs. "Whoa. Tall, dark, and misery at twelve o'clock."
I freeze. I don't even turn my head yet, and I already know. Something in the air just shifts, the way a room recalibrates when a certain kind of weight walks into it. I look over my shoulder slowly, like I'm expecting the clown from it to be standing behind me.
Nope. Not a killer clown. Worse.
"Oh my god, Blake."
He's walking toward the bar, not looking at the tables. He looks... God. He's still in work clothes, covered in fine sawdust like he walked straight out of the shop without stopping. His shoulders are hunched, jaw set so tight I can see the muscle from here. He looks like a man marching to a funeral.
He sits at the far end of the bar, keeping his back to the room. Doesn't scan the crowd. Doesn't look for anyone. Just stares at the bottles lined up behind the bar like he wants to break every single one.
"You're shitting me? That's him?" Jamila's voice drops to a whisper.
"Yeah."
"He's handsome," Kerry notes objectively. "In a 'I might punch a wall' kind of way. But he looks like he hasn't slept in a week."
"He looks worse than that," I whisper.
My nurse brain kicks in before the rest of me catches up. I can't help it. I watch the way he lifts his hand to signal the bartender.
There's a tremor.
