Page 190 of What We Break
He laughs—a hollow, broken sound. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters." He reaches across me and shoves my door open. Cold air floods the cab. "Go inside. Forget this conversation. Forget me."
"I don't understand?—"
"You don't have to understand. You just have to go."
I sit there, shaking, tears running down my face. There's something here I'm not seeing. Something he's not saying. The way he looked at me just now—like he was drowning isn’t simple hate.
It doesn't matter how many times I ask. It's never going to make sense. He doesn't make sense. And I don't know how to operate like that. I don't know what words exist that could fix any of this.
"I wish it could be different," I whisper.
Blake goes very still.
When he speaks again, his voice is ice. "Wishing doesn't change anything. Get out."
"Blake—"
"Get out of my truck!" he roars.
I slap my hands over my ears and climb out on shaking legs, remembering at the last minute to grab my bag. The moment my feet hit the pavement, he reaches over and pulls the door shut. The truck peels away from the curb before I can say another word.
I stand on the sidewalk, watching his taillights disappear around the corner.
Something just broke. I felt it happen — some last thread snapping under the weight of everything he said. Everything he didn't say.
You think I want this?
The way his voice cracked. The way he looked at me like being near me was costing him. Not angry. Not cold. Worse than both.
I can't stop.
What can't he stop? None of it makes sense. And somehow that makes it worse, the not knowing. I'm a fixer. I always have been.There's always been an answer, always been a solution to any problem I've run across. All I needed to do was keep trying.
I don't think I can try anymore. Blake isn't just a problem, he's a person. A complicated, angry, suffering problem.
And clearly I am not equipped to solve it.
I walk into my building on numb legs. Climb the stairs. Lock my door.
Then I slide down to the floor, press my face into my knees, and let myself shatter.
38
LAINE
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" The kid's crying harder than he's puking, which is saying something since he just painted my scrub pants with what looks like red Gatorade and pizza. Some of it's splattered on my shoes too.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." I grab a basin with one hand while rubbing his back with the other. His whole body's shaking. Twelve years old and mortified, probably thinks this is the worst thing that's ever happened to him. "Connor, look at me. It's okay."
"I didn't mean to?—"
"I know you didn't. You told me your stomach hurt and I didn't get the basin fast enough. That's on me, not you."
His mom's hovering, hands fluttering like she wants to help but doesn't know how. "I'm so sorry about your shoes. I can?—"
"They're waterproof for a reason." I keep my voice light even though the smell's hitting me now. Pizza definitely. Why do kids always eat pizza right before they come to the ER? "Connor, you still feeling sick?"
He nods miserably, tears and snot mixing on his face. I position the basin and wait with him through another round, making soothingnoises. Poor kid. Stomach flu's been tearing through his school—we've had dozens of kids in here this week.
