Page 117 of What We Break
"Everyone good?" I ask.
"Good," Reid says.
"Good," Laine echoes.
I pull back onto the highway. The road stretches ahead, winding through the mountains toward Sunriver. I drive carefully—more carefully than before. Checking mirrors, watching the curves, keeping the speed steady.
I've got cargo that matters.
And I've got forty minutes to get my head on straight before we have to unload a three-hundred-pound slab of walnut and pretend I'm not losing my mind.
24
LAINE
The driveway gravel crunches under Blake's tires.
I'm still wearing his jacket.
I didn't mean to keep it this long. Somewhere between Sunriver and here, I stopped noticing the weight of it on my shoulders. It just felt warm. Safe.
Reid's hand finds my knee as Blake parks the truck. "Team Badass Hotties, undefeated."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing. I'm making shirts."
I laugh, and god, it feels good to laugh. The day has been so much—the accident, Emma's blood on my hands, the quiet intensity of the install where we barely spoke. I'm exhausted in a way that goes deeper than muscles and bones. The kind of tired where your brain should shut up but won't. When has it ever?
But I'm also weirdly okay. More than okay.
Blake kills the engine and he's already moving, out of the truck before I've even fumbled with my seatbelt. He grabs his gear from the bed—efficient, deliberate. Not looking at us.
Right. We're back to this.
I shrug off the jacket as I climb out, holding it toward him. "Thanksfor this. I can wash it before I?—"
"Keep it." He still won't look at me. "Got blood on it anyway."
"Blake—"
But he's already walking toward the workshop, shoulders tight, toolbag in hand. The door opens, closes.
He's gone.
And I'm just standing here holding his jacket like an idiot.Oh, you'd like me to keep it? How amazingly kind of you. Such a generous man.
Reid comes around the truck and watches Blake disappear, a small frown creasing his forehead. "You coming in?" he yells toward Blake's silhouette. "We could order food."
No answer. Just a toss of his arm. The universal sign for 'leave me the fuck alone'. Is it wrong that it makes me feel a little better than he's brushing off Reid too?
Reid sighs. "He gets like this sometimes. After intense days. Needs to work through it."
"He was different today."
"Different how?"
How do I explain it? Blake crouched by the guardrail. His hands—big, rough, the kind of hands that look like they were built to break things—gentle on Emma's mom's hands as he picked glass from her skin. The low voice he used. Patient. Calm. Like he had all the time in the world for her fear.
