Page 187 of What We Break
I read it twice, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
It's fine. I can get a ride-share.
Already texted him. He's on his way.
Seven percent now. The screen dims like it's trying to bow out of this conversation gracefully.
Thanks,I type, because what else can I say?
Blake's truckrumbles into the parking garage eighteen minutes later.
He pulls up next to my dead Honda and climbs out without a word. Jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sawdust still caught in the creases of his forearms. Straight from the workshop, then. Does this man ever sleep?
"Pop the hood," he says.
Nohello.Nosorry about your carorrough night.Just instructions.
I pop the hood. Guess I don't need to worry about thanking him for going out of his way. He looks like he's two seconds away from biting my head off, so I keep my mouth clamped shut. Am I grateful for the help? Yeah. Do I love that Reid volunteered Blake? Nope. Not even a little bit.
He disappears under it for a few minutes, fiddling with cables and connections. I sit in the driver's seat and watch him through the crack of the hood. The set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. Even from here, I can see he doesn't want to be here.
That makes two of us.
Finally, he steps back. "Try it now."
I turn the key. Click. Click. Nothing.
Blake slams the hood, shaking the whole car. "It's not the battery. Probably the starter. You'll need a tow."
"Great." I climb out of the car, suddenly aware of how tired I am. How much I don't want to deal with any of this. "I'll call someone."
"With what? Reid said your phone's almost dead." He's already walking back to his truck. "I'll drive you home. You can figure it out later."
Every instinct tells me to refuse. Call the ride-share. Wait for a tow. Do anything except get into that truck with him. Physically, I'll be safe with him. I know that. But every time we're alone together, which admittedly isn't often, things go sideways.
But my phone's at four percent now, and I'm exhausted, and my apartment is only ten minutes away. Ten minutes. I can survive ten minutes.
"Fine," I say. "Thanks."
He doesn't respond. Just climbs into the driver's seat and waits.
The first two minutes pass in silence.
Blake drives the way he does everything, controlled and efficient. He doesn't look at me once. Not a glance, not a flicker. I don't know how he does that, how he makes me feel like I'm not even here. Or maybe it's wishful thinking on his part.
His hands are steady on the wheel. I can see the calluses on his knuckles, the faint stains around his fingernails that never quite wash out. Working hands. Capable hands.
I stare out the window and try not to think about how small this cab feels. How heavy the air is.
Four minutes.
"You didn't have to come," I say, because apparently I have a problem with quiet. We're so close to my place, the smart thing would have been to keep quiet. Why can't I do the smart thing around him?
His lips tighten. "Reid asked."
"I know. But you didn't have to say yes. I'm not your responsibility."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps driving, jaw ticking.
