Page 48 of What We Break
I read it three times. Four. It sounds confident and casual and like a person who has her life together, which is a spectacular illusion.
Just send it. Send it before you rewrite it fourteen more times and end up texting him a grocery list by accident.
Send.
I put my phone face-down on the desk. Then pick it up. Then put it face-down again.
It buzzes back almost immediately.
Reid
That sounds perfect. Sat at 6??
I check my schedule, making sure I have this Saturday off, then text him back.
See you then.
Short. Simple. Done.
I put my phone away and lean back in my chair. My heart is beating faster than it should be, and I'm not sure if it's excitement or anxiety.
Both. Definitely both.
You're cooking dinner at his house. The house he shares with Blake. The best friend he talks about like he hung the moon. You're going to be in their space, making pasta sauce, trying not to burn things or catch feelings or?—
Stop. You're making pasta. You're good at pasta. Focus on the pasta.
11
REID
Iread Laine's text three times before it sinks in.
She said yes. She wants to see me.
But she also wants to change the plans I've been obsessing over for the past twelve hours. The plans I've already mentally rehearsed seventeen times.
I've already made reservations at that French place downtown—the one with the tiny portions and the waiters who judge you for mispronouncing things. A couple of women I dated talked about it like it was some kind of romantic holy grail. I'd been planning to wear my good shirt, the one that actually requires ironing. I'd even watched two YouTube videos about wine so I could pretend I know what the fuck I'm talking about.
And now she wants to cook pasta at my house.
In my kitchen.
Where she'll see how I actually live.
The fancy dinner was supposed to show her I'm serious about this, that I'm not just after casual. But the bigger part of me, the part that's been replaying every moment of our date at the camp, is already imagining Laine in my kitchen, making herself at home.
That sounds perfect. Saturday at six?
I hit send before I can overthink it. Her reply comes less than a minute later.
See you then.
I set my phone down and lean back against my couch, trying to figure out why I feel both disappointed and excited at the same time. Blake emerges from the back of the house, sawdust in his hair and wood stain on his forearms. He takes one look at me staring at the ceiling and sighs. It's long, and loud, and overly fucking dramatic.
"What the fuck is wrong with you now?"
"Laine texted back."
