Page 153 of What We Break
"Earth to Moore," Thompson waves a hand in front of my face. "You're brooding again."
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood," Hatch says, and something in his voice makes me look up. "You've been brooding since you got here."
"Maybe he's constipated," Kowalski suggests helpfully. "Seriously, Moore, when's the last time you took a good shit? I'm talking quality here, not just?—"
"Jesus Christ, Kowalski," Thompson cuts him off. "Why does everything come back to bathroom habits with you?"
"Because it's important!" Kowalski waves his beer around. "Half the world's problems could be solved with proper fiber intake. Depression? Constipation. Anger issues? Constipation. Relationship problems? Definitely backed the fuck up."
"Maybe you should mind your own business," I shoot back, but without any real heat.
"This is my business," Kowalski grins. "Your emotional well-being directly affects my entertainment value. And right now you're about as fun as a clogged toilet."
There he goes again with the bathroom metaphors. Guy's got a one-track mind.
But Hatch is still watching me with those sharp eyes that saw through enemy bullshit in three different countries. And I know this conversation isn't over. The question is whether I can deflect long enough for him to let it go, or if he's going to push until I crack.
The fire catches, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. Davisstarts telling a story about his new job, something about corporate bureaucracy that has everyone laughing. I laugh too, participate in the conversation, play my part. But the whole time I can feel Hatch's eyes on me, cataloging every forced smile, every beat too long before I respond to a joke.
One by one, the guys start heading to their tents. Davis first, claiming he's getting too old to stay up past ten. Then Thompson, who actually is too young to keep up with our alcohol tolerance. Chavez and Kowalski disappear together, still arguing about whether there's really a Barcelona, Oregon.
Until it's just me and Hatch, sitting across from each other with the fire crackling between us.
Just my fucking luck. I should bail, head to my tent. But that sick part of me, the part that likes the pain, wants this conversation.
"Alright," Hatch says, settling back in his chair. "Now you can tell me what's really going on."
"Nothing's going on."
"Blake." Hatch's voice carries the same tone it did when we were deployed, the one that meant he could see straight through whatever bullshit I was trying to sell. "You've lost weight. You're jumpy. And you've got that look in your eye."
"What look?" Brilliant plan asshole. Play dumb. That'll work.
"The one you get when a mission is going sideways and you're trying to figure out who you have to sacrifice to save the objective."
I take a long pull from my beer, buying time. "Just tired. Business has been busy."
"Try again."
Fuck.
"Reid's got a girlfriend," I say finally, staring into the fire. "Serious girlfriend. They're talking about moving in together."
"That's..." Hatch pauses. "That's good news, right? You've been worried about him finding someone since that last thing blew up."
The last thing.The woman that nearly fucking destroyed him. The one that couldn't handle the dark hole he crawled into after Jared died, and fucking bailed.
"Yeah. It's great news." The words taste really fucking bitter. "Reid deserves to be happy."
"But? There has to be a but, cause you don't sound very happy."
But I'm in love with her. But I think about her every waking moment. But watching them together is like having my chest cracked open with a crowbar every single day.
"But nothing. I'm happy for him."
Hatch shakes his head and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Blake, I've known you for fifteen years. This isn't happiness for Reid. This is something else."
