Page 127 of What We Break
"Don't be. I'm better off." She raises her glass. "To being better off."
I lift my whiskey. "To being better off." At least one of us is.
We drink in silence for a few minutes. She's attractive in a sharp, no-nonsense way. But I don't want her. Don't even know her name yet. But I need to touch skin that isn't Laine's. Need to prove to myself that my body still works without her. And the look in this woman's eyes tells me she'd be more than open to that.
"I'm Leanne," she says.
"Blake."
"So what's your story, Blake? You look like someone who just watched his best friend get everything he wanted."
If I believed in psychics and all that shit, I might be spooked. I down the rest of my whiskey and signal for another. "Really fucking close."
She studies me for a long moment, then slides over to the stool next to mine. "Want to get out of here? I've got a bottle of better whiskey atmy place, and we both look like we could use some company that doesn't ask too many questions."
I should say no. Should go home and sleep off the alcohol and figure out how to be a better friend to Reid.
Instead, I finish my second drink and pull out my wallet. "Let's go."
Leanne's apartment screams divorce.Half the books are gone from the shelves, and you can see lighter spots on the walls where pictures used to be. Nothing really goes together.
"Told you the whiskey was better." She pours two glasses, hands me one. The couch sags when we sit, angled toward each other but not touching.
"How long were you married?" Pretty sure she mentioned it at the bar, but I wasn't paying attention.
"Ten years. Together for twelve." She takes a sip, stares at the blank wall where a TV probably used to be. "I knew for the last two that something was off. But I kept telling myself I was imagining it."
In the military, you learn to trust your gut. It's saved my life, and the lives of my men, more than once. But out here, when it's not life and death, too many people write it off. "You weren't."
"No." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I wasn't." She tucks her feet up underneath her. "What about you? How long have you been in love with her?" Fuck. There's that psychic thing again. I didn't tell her shit about Laine. But she knows. Am I that fucking obvious?
I take a long drink before answering. "Few months. Since she walked into my kitchen and I couldn't breathe."
"That bad?"
"Worse."
She nods like this makes perfect sense. We drink in silence for a while. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and occasional car passing outside.
"He took the dog," she says suddenly. "That's the thing that pisses me off most. Not the affair, not the lies. He took the fucking dog."
"What kind?"
"Beagle. Lucy." She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Had her since she was eight weeks old. She used to sleep on my side of the bed."
I want to find this asshole and beat the shit out of him. Taking someone's dog is lower than dirt. And it would feel so fucking good to make someone bleed. But I'm not a fucking idiot. Fucking up her ex won't make the shit in my head better.
"It's not stupid."
"It is. My marriage imploded and I'm crying about a dog."
"You're crying about all of it. The dog's just the part you can say out loud."
I know how that works. The big grief is too heavy to hold, so you grab onto something smaller. Something that you can wrap your head around.
She looks at me for a long moment. Her face softens.
"You're not what I expected," she says.
