Page 181 of What We Break
She'd been so fierce. So pissed off. Listing her flaws like she was building a case against herself, like if she could just prove she was human enough I'd stop?—
Stop what?
I pick up the chisel again. Try to focus on the grain, the way the wood wants to move. Restoration is about listening. About patience. About understanding you can't force something to be what it's not.
The chisel slips again.
"Fuck."
I shove back from the bench and pace the length of the workshop. It's past midnight. Should be sleeping. But every time I close my eyes I see her. The way she leaned in to look at thephotographs. Her hair. The way her breath caught when I touched her elbow.
She's Reid's.
She's Reid's, and I'm poison. Every time I open my mouth around her I say cruel shit. Shit engineered to make her flinch, make her stop looking at me like that, because if she hates me then at least I know what to do with it. Hate I understand. Hate has a shape.
But she doesn't hate me. She keeps trying. Keeps showing up with groceries and questions about my work and that goddamn warmth in her eyes that makes me want to tell her everything, every ugly thing, just to see if she'd still stay.
And that's the problem. That's the whole fucking problem. I want her to stay.
I slam my palm against the workbench.
Stop.
The mantel stares back at me, patient and silent. Generations of craftsmen touched this wood before me. They understood something I'm failing to grasp—that some things are worth protecting, even when it costs you.
Reid is worth protecting.
I just don't know how much longer I can pay the price.
I've gottengood at timing.
Reid leaves for his shift at six AM, which means I wait until six-fifteen to come inside for coffee. Laine works nights, so she's usually gone by the time I surface. On her days off, she stays at her apartment more often than not.
The system works. Mostly.
"You're avoiding me."
Reid's standing in the kitchen doorway. It's Tuesday, which means he should be at work. How the fuck did I miss his truck in the driveway? I freeze with my hand on the coffee pot.
"Thought you had a shift."
"Switched. Tony has an ultrasound with Angie today." He crosses his arms, leaning against the frame. "You've been weird lately."
Weird. That's one way of putting it. Fucked up would be another. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've eaten dinner in the workshop every night this week. You disappear whenever Laine comes over. And you look like you haven't slept in a month."
I pour my coffee, keeping my back to him. "Big project. Deadline's tight."
"Bullshit."
The word hangs in the air. God dammit, why does he have to push this? Why can't he just be happy and leave me the fuck alone?
"Blake." His voice is softer now. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
I take a sip of coffee. It burns my tongue. Good.
"Nothing's going on. I'm just tired." There's no fucking reason to tell him I'm cracking. That my head is fucked up. He won't hear it anyway. Or maybe he can't. Either way, it won't solve anything.
