Page 134 of What We Break
That makes sense. Blake's lived with just Reid for years. Me showing up, sleeping over, folding myself into their routine — maybe that's harder for him than I thought.
"You're probably right," I say, and I want to believe it. I want to believe Blake isn't actually cruel. That there's some reasonable explanation for why he looked at me like that and made me feel two inches tall.
"I know I'm right." Reid stands up and pulls me into his arms. "Give him some time to adjust. He'll come around."
I nod against his chest, breathing him in. The familiar warmth of his shirt, the steady rise and fall underneath. Maybe this is just growing pains. Maybe Blake and I will figure out how to exist in thesame space, and this morning will turn into some weird blip we laugh about later.
"I should get going," I say, pulling back to look at Reid. "I really do need to get home."
"Okay. But hey," Reid cups my face in his hands, "don't worry about Blake, okay? Everything's going to be fine."
I want to believe him. I really do.
But it doesn't feel fine.
27
BLAKE
Imake it to the workshop before my hands start shaking.
The door slams behind me. I just stand there in the dark, breathing hard. Tool wall's right where it should be. Chisels, planes, clamps, all lined up. The piece I finished last night is on the workbench, waiting for pickup.
Normal. Everything looks normal.
I'm not.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars.
The look on her face. God, the look on her face when I said those things to her.
Maybe next time put some pants on...
I close my eyes, press my forehead against the mantel. The wood's cool. Solid.
I had to say it. I had to make her leave the room.
One more minute. That's all it would've taken. One more minute of her standing there, soft and half-asleep, smelling like everything I can't have. I would've done something I couldn't take back. Put my hands on her hips. Pulled her into me. Pressed my face into her neck and just held on like some desperate fucking wreck of a person.
So I used the only weapon I had left. I made her hate me.
It worked. She left. I'm safe.
So why does it feel like I just sawed off my own hand?
The man I used to be would never have said something like that. Six months ago, I was fine. Quiet, sure. Kept to myself. But I didn't go around making people feel like shit just because I couldn't handle the fuckery in my own head.
Fuck. Who am I trying to fool? Even the old me would have a big fucking problem with Laine Mitchell standing in my kitchen wearing my best friend's shirt.
It was tight across her hips. Bare legs. Soft and warm and real. Not some stick figure. Someone you could actually hold onto.
And all I can think about is how she'd look in my shirt. I'm bigger in the shoulders and chest than Reid. My shirt would hide more of her. Like a special little surprise underneath.
And she smelled like sex.
No.
I grip the edge of the workbench until my knuckles go white. Wood solid under my hands. Real. Grounding. Doesn't help. Nothing helps anymore. I can't let myself think of her. Of them together. I'm losing my fucking mind.
