Page 110 of What We Break
"About that," Reid yells from the back seat. "Over the pass. The mountains are gorgeous this time of year. You're gonna love it."
Two hours in a truck with Reid's chaotic energy and Blake's brooding silence. I'm not sure "love" is the word I'd use.
I won't be bored, that's for sure.
I settle back into the seat and dig through the snack bag. Red vines, beef jerky, a bag of those terrible orange circus peanuts that only Reid would buy.
The highway stretches ahead, cutting through a corridor of Douglas firs that seem to lean in toward us. Reid's 90s playlist has cycled through Smash Mouth and is now inflicting "MMMBop" on all of us. Blake looks like he wants to kill someone.
Not someone. Reid. Definitely Reid.
"So," I say, twisting in my seat to include both of them, "tell me about this piece. Reid said it's been in your workshop for three months?"
Blake's shoulders shift. Not quite a shrug, but close. "Custom dining table. Live edge walnut. Client wanted something that could seat twelve."
"Twelve people around one table." I whistle. "That's a lot of holiday dinners." Also, thank goodness there's going to be more help. I doubt the three of us could lift a table that size.
"It's for a vacation rental. High-end place. They host corporate retreats, family reunions, that kind of thing." He changes lanes to pass a slow-moving RV. "The owner saw a piece I did for a restaurant in Portland. Tracked me down."
"Blake's being modest," Reid pipes up from the back. "The table is insane. Like, museum-quality insane. Show her the pictures."
"I'm driving."
"I'll show her." Reid's already reaching forward, phone in hand. He swipes through his camera roll and holds it up for me.
My breath catches.
The table is massive—a single slab of wood that curves and flows like water frozen mid-ripple. The grain swirls in waves of amber and chocolate, and the natural edge is preserved, bark and all, following the tree's original shape. The finish gleams like honey in sunlight.
"Blake." I look over at him. "This isstunning."
His jaw works. "It's just wood."
"It's not just wood and you know it." I zoom in on the detail. The joinery is invisible—I can't even see where the legs meet the top. "How long did the actual build take?" I knew he did restorations, but how is this the first time I'm learning that he does custom stuff. Gorgeous custom stuff. The man is an artist.
"Three months, give or take." He's staring at the road, but that gloomy air around him is lifting. "The slab sat in my shop for a year before that. Had to let it acclimate. Wood moves when the humidity changes. Rush it, and it'll warp on you."
"A year of just... waiting?"
"Waiting and planning. Figuring out how to cut it, where to place the legs so they don't fight the grain." He glances over, quick. "You don't force wood into what you want. You work with what it gives you."
"That sounds like good life advice."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Maybe."
Reid isin the middle of a passionate monologue about whether Alanis Morissette's "Ironic" contains any actual irony when Blake's foot hits the brake.
The truck slows hard. Not a panic stop, but deliberate. Controlled. My coffee sloshes against the lid.
"What—" Reid starts.
"Vehicle." Blake's voice has gone flat. He's already pulling the truck onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. "Cliff side. Looks fresh."
I crane my neck to see past him. We're rounding a curve where the road hugs the mountainside, guardrails separating asphalt from a steep drop into pine forest. And there—maybe fifty yards ahead—a silver sedan sits at a wrong angle, its front end up on the concrete barrier. The back wheels are still on the road, but barely. The whole car lists toward the drop.
Not good. Not at all.
Blake kills the engine and he's out of the truck before I can even get my seatbelt undone. Reid's hand lands on my shoulder from behind.
