Page 203 of What We Break
Slight, but rhythmic. His hand is shaking.
That's not just anger. That's adrenaline crashing. Or exhaustion. Or grief.
"Ignore him," Jamila says, her voice sharp with protection. "Laine, turn around. Let's finish up and go to that dessert place on 4th. You don't need this."
I should. I really, really should.
But I can't take my eyes off him. Reid was going to him. He made is sound so easy.I'll fix this. I'll talk to him.
And then I look at Blake, sitting there like a jagged rock that refuses to be moved.
If I leave now, I'm just delaying the inevitable. I need to know. I need to understand what I'm fighting against. Is he just a bully? Or is he drowning?
"I'll be right back," I say, sliding out of the booth.
"Laine, don't," Jamila warns, reaching for my arm. "Don't poke the bear."
"I'm not going to poke him," I say, smoothing my shirt. "I'm just going to get a diagnosis."
I walk over to the bar before I can lose my nerve. The sawdust smell hits me before I even reach him—pine and old sweat.
I slide onto the empty stool beside him.
"Blake."
He doesn't turn around. "Laine."
He doesn't sound surprised. He sounds tired. Bone deep tired.
"Can we talk?"
"I'm watching the game."
The TV above the bar is playing a rerun of a fishing show. "No, you're not. You're hiding."
That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens. He signals the bartender for another drink. His glass is already empty.
"I know you don't like me," I start, keeping my voice low so the bartender won't hear. "I'm not here to argue about that. But Reid... he's twisting himself into knots trying to fix this. Trying to fix us."
Blake stares at his whiskey. "Reid's a fixer. It's what he does."
"He shouldn't have to fix his best friend attacking his girlfriend."
Blake finally looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with red. "I didn't attack you. I told you the truth. You're a flight risk. You don't know how to stay."
"And you do?" I counter. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's about two seconds away from running."
He flinches. It's small, but I see it.
"You don't know me," he says harshly. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're hurting him," I say. "I know you're making him choose. And that's not fair, Blake. If you love him—as a brother, as a friend, whatever—you shouldn't be making him miserable."
Blake's hand tightens around his glass until his knuckles turn white. The tremor is back, worse this time.
"I'm not making him choose," he says, his voice rough, barely audible over the jukebox. "I tried to leave. Tonight."
I blink. "What?"
