Page 25 of What We Break
"I'm trying. It's harder than I thought." I push a piece of pancake through the syrup, dragging it in a slow circle. "Making friends as an adult is this weird, humiliating process nobody warns you about. When I was a kid, even moving around all the time, it was easy. You'd show up and within a day you had a buddy. The whole application process was 'want to be friends?' Done. Accepted. No further documentation required."
"Right? Kids don't overthink it."
"Exactly. Now there's all this unspoken strategy. Is it too soon to text? Am I being too eager? Not eager enough? Am I one follow-up away from a restraining order?" I put my fork down. "I went to a yoga class last week specifically to make friends, and I spent the entire hour trying to figure out if the woman next to me wanted to chat or wanted me to leave her alone. Turns out she wanted to chat. But I'd already decided she hated me, so I almost bolted without saying a word."
Reid laughs. "That's the saddest and sweetest thing I've ever heard."
"I know. I'm a disaster." And why did I just tell him that? Why did I just hand him the world's most pathetic anecdote like it was a fun party story?
"I can't relate to that problem. I've had the same best friend since we were teenagers."
"Blake?"
"Yeah. He practically lived at our house growing up. His home situation was..." Something shifts in his face. Not a flinch, exactly. More like a door closing halfway. "Hard. It was hard. So my mom just started setting a place for him at dinner every night."
And there it is. The thing that makes him make sense.
The patience. The way he folds himself into whatever shape a situation needs. He learned it at a table where someone just quietly added a plate. No big speech. No conditions. Just — here, sit down, there's enough.
I know that table. I grew up at that table. So why does hearing about his version of it make me feel gooey?
"Your mom sounds great. And I'm sure Blake was thankful to have you."
"We never talked about it, but looking back, I know he was. Blake, me, and my brother Jared were inseparable. We did everything together — played sports, got in trouble, planned our futures." Reid's expression goes distant. "Jared enlisted first, right out of high school, so Blake followed him, and then when I finished school, I did too."
"All three of you?"
"Jared was always the leader. Just the kind of guy you wanted to be around. So when he decided to join up, we couldn't imagine not going with him." He pauses. "Jared convinced me to train as a medic. Said I had steady hands and that I was smart enough to take care of people. Said I could do more than be a grunt like him."
Three teenage boys who thought staying together was the same as staying safe. Sweet and devastating in equal measure.
"I can't really imagine it," I say. "Having that kind of friendship from childhood. Having people who've known you that long."
"You didn't have that? Even with all the moving?"
"I had friends in every country. But they were seasonal. I'd be inseparable with someone for however long my family was there, and then we'd leave and I'd never see them again." The words hit my own ears and I wince. "God, that sounds depressing. It wasn't depressing. I just never had a Blake. Someone who stuck."
Reid looks at me. Steady. Quiet. "You will."
It would be so easy to read more into his words. Too easy. And there's this thing happening—this fluttery, ridiculous thing in my ribs that is so not me. I'm the confident girl. The fun, casual girl. I have always been that girl.
So why does everything feel so loaded this morning? Why am I sitting here dissecting two syllables from a guy I barely know like they're going to be on a final exam?
Get it together, Laine. "That's the plan," I say with my best flirty smile. "We can't all be as lucky as you though."
"Yeah, we were lucky. Even now, Blake and I —" Reid trails off,covering a yawn so big his jaw cracks. "Oh man. Sorry. My body just remembered it's supposed to be unconscious right now." He shakes his head like a dog coming out of water. "I'm fine. Totally fine. Tell me more things. I'm riveted."
"You're barely conscious."
He widens his eyes and leans forward. "I'mriveted."
"Sure you are. You're forgiven. I'm exhausted too." I try to stifle my own yawn and fail completely. Yawning is the most contagious thing on the planet. More contagious than the flu. More contagious than Reid's smile, which is saying something. "But I'm not ready for this to end yet."
"Me neither."
The words hang between us. The diner is busy, there's a low hum of conversation around us, but it still feels like we're in this little bubble, just the two of us. Ilikehim. Not the cautious, let-me-think-about-it kind. The stupid, inconvenient, butterflies-in-my-stomach kind that I'm going to have to talk myself down from later.
It's one date, Mitchell. One. Calm down.
