Page 42 of What We Break
I've picked it up, put it down, picked it up again. Walked to the kitchen, walked back. Sat on the couch, stood up, sat down again. My leg won't stop bouncing.
I'm a hypocrite. I have all these feelings, all these thoughts about wanting to spend lots of time with the woman, and then I don't reach out.
I'm a fucking pussy.
The cursor blinks in the empty text field, mocking me. Judging me. This tiny blinking line is somehow winning a psychological battle against me. I'm a grown man dammit. This shouldn't be this hard.
Hey, want to grab dinner sometime?
Too casual. Delete.
Freethis weekend?
Too vague. Delete.
Had a great time Saturday. When can I see u again?
Too eager? Too desperate? Fuck. Delete.
Hi
Jesus Christ. Delete.
"You gonna actually send something, or just keep staring at that thing like it's gonna bite you?"
I look up to find Blake standing in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, sawdust in his hair like always. There's a smear of wood stain on his forearm. He's been in the workshop all morning. And he has that look on his face, the one that says he's been watching me be an idiot for longer than his patience can handle.
"I'm not staring at anything," I say, putting my phone face-down on the couch. Then I grab a pillow and put it on top of the phone for good measure.
"Right." Blake drops into the chair across from me, one eyebrow raised at the pillow situation. "Just like you weren't staring at it last night, or the night before that."
Yeah. I've been doing that. "How's the mantel coming?"
He snorts and takes a sip of his coffee. "Nice try, asshole. But we're talking about why you've been moping around here for four days instead of calling that nurse you can't shut up about."
I haven't been moping. I've been... processing. Thinking. Trying to figure out why every time I go to text Laine, my chest gets tight and my brain starts running through all the ways this could go wrong.
"I'm not moping."
"Reid. You've deep-cleaned all three bathrooms, and yesterday I caught you alphabetizing the fucking spice rack." Blake takes a sip of his coffee. "You only clean when you're avoiding something."
Shit. He's right. I did alphabetize the spice rack. When the hell did we get so much oregano? And why do we have three half-empty bottles of cumin? And what the fuck is cumin for?
"Fuck you. I clean."
"Since when? I've seen your locker at the station. It looks like a bomb went off in a laundry basket."
Since I started thinking about Laine fitting into my life and realizing how much I want that to happen. Since I started imagining her here, in this house, part of my routine. Drinking coffee in the kitchen. Laughing at something stupid I said. Meeting Blake, fitting in with us somehow.
Since I realized I'm falling for her faster than I've ever fallen for anyone, and that scares the hell out of me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, which is the lamest deflection in history and we both know it.
Blake sighs and sets his mug on the coffee table. "Alright, let's try this again. You had a good time with Laine on Saturday."
"Yeah."
"You told me she's smart, funny, good at her job, volunteers her time helping people."
