Page 185 of What We Break
Another pause. I can picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his jaw the way he does when he's thinking.
"I've got a job," he says. "Three months, maybe four. Afghanistan. Security consulting for a reconstruction project."
My hand tightens on the phone. "You offering or just talking?"
"I'm offering. Good team. Clear objectives. Could use someone with your skills." He pauses. "Could also use someone who needs to get his head straight."
Three months of desert and work that makes sense. Three months away from the smell of her hair and the sound of her laugh and the slow torture of watching Reid touch her like he has every right to.
Which he does.
And I fucking hate him for it.
It would be so easy to go. But, "I can't just leave."
"Why not?"
"Because Reid?—"
"Reid's fine. You said so yourself. He's got the girl, he's got the job. He's not the mess he was after Jared."
"What if something happens while I'm gone?" Maybe he'd be okay. He'd have Laine. Being in love means watching out for each other. But if he goes dark, who's going to take care of her. Who's going to make sure they're both okay in the end?
"Then he deals with it. Like an adult." Hatch's voice hardens. "You're not his father, Blake. You're not responsible for keeping him alive."
"You don't understand?—"
"I understand you're using him as an excuse." Fucker doesn't pull any punches. "You'd rather stay there and suffer than take a chance on him being okay without you. That's not loyalty. That's being a fucking martyr."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he's wrong, that Reid needs me, that I can't abandon my post.
But the truth is, I don't know if Reid needs me anymore. He thinks he does, but he's wrong.
At least I hope he is. Because I don't know if I can survive another three months of this.
"When do you need an answer?"
"Wheels up in a month. But I need to know by next Friday."
Friday. Nine days.
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long." His voice softens, just slightly. "The offer's real, Blake. Clean break. Time to get your head right. Sometimes that's what it takes."
37
LAINE
"Ready to head out, hon?"
Joyce is already shrugging into her jacket, that end-of-shift exhaustion settling into the lines around her eyes. She manages a tired smile as I grab my coat from the break room hook.
Then the wail starts again.
Joyce's smile cracks. She flinches, just for a second, before the professional mask slides back into place.
It's been like this for hours. Waves of grief rolling down the hallway, impossible to ignore. A seventeen-year-old boy in Room 4, car accident, dead before he reached us. His family has been in there since 5:00 AM. The hospital gives them as long as they need, but the sound of it seeps into everything. The pain and confusion and loss soak into the walls, into my body.
