Page 179 of What We Break
"How'd it go?" Reid asks when I return to the kitchen.
"He really doesn't want to join us," I say, forcing my voice to sound normal. "Said he wasn't feeling like being a third wheel tonight."
Reid frowns, stirring the pasta with more force than necessary. "Damn it. I was hoping after you two talked earlier..."
"It's okay. He seemed pretty set on staying in the workshop."
But I'm rattled. Not just by Blake staying behind, but by that moment at the door. His hand on my arm and the way my skin kepthumming after he pulled away. The way he looked at me like he was physically holding himself back.
Like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't.
"I'll talk to him later," Reid says, turning back to the stove. "Let him know how important it is that he joins us sometimes. We're going to be family, you know? All three of us."
Three days later,I'm back at Reid's house for dinner, watching what feels like a performance.
Blake is making an effort. A visible, almost painful effort that makes me wonder what exactly Reid said to him.
"Laine's making that pasta sauce you like," Reid tells Blake as we're setting the table.
"Great." Blake's smile seems genuine enough. "The one with the secret ingredient, right?"
"Dark chocolate," I confirm, pleased that he remembered.
"Right. The one you learned when you were a kid." Blake nods.
The words are right. The tone is right. But his eyes aren't playing along — there's something held back behind them, almost careful. His shoulders stay squared under his shirt like he's braced. He's hitting every mark, saying every right thing, and none of it lands the way it should.
Reid beams at both of us, clearly thrilled that we're getting along. How does he not see what's happening here? How is he this oblivious? "See? I knew you two would hit it off if you gave it a chance."
Dinner is more of the same. Blake asks polite questions about my work, compliments the food, laughs at Reid's stories. All the right notes, none of the music.
Then Reid launches into a story about a call last week, and I glance over at Blake.
He's not looking at Reid.
He's looking at me.
Not coldly. Not with that guarded distance I've gotten used to. Something raw. Unfinished.
Then he realizes I've caught him, and it's gone. He turns back to Reid, asks a question about the patient, and the moment evaporates.
I pick up my fork. My hand isn't quite steady.
"Hey, I forgot—I've got those photos in my truck," Reid says, pushing back from the table. "The new cardiac monitor. You've got to see this thing, Blake. Be right back."
The moment the door closes behind him, the air in the room changes.
Blake's smile doesn't disappear completely, but it shifts, turning achy.
"You don't have to try so hard," he says quietly, not looking at me.
"What do you mean?"
"This." He gestures vaguely. "The cooking, the questions about my work, the whole... domestic thing."
There's no malice in his voice. If anything, it sounds raw.
"I'm not trying. I'm just being myself." Lies. I am trying. I am putting on a bit of a show, but it's his fault. His fakeness is making me nervous.
