Page 88 of What We Break
"Between Danny's outreach and yoga classes and now this, you're going to be busier than Blake."
Blake. My stomach does that little twist it's been doing every time his name comes up. He hasn't hung out with us once since trivia night. Every time Reid mentions inviting him — movie night, dinner, just hanging out — there's always an excuse. A deadline. A complicated restoration piece. Something about the workshop.
Three weeks of excuses.
I keep going back and forth on it. Some days I'm sure it's me. That I did something wrong, or said the wrong thing, or just — I don't know. Existed too loudly in his space. Other days I think maybe this is just how Blake is. Reid's mentioned he goes through phases where he disappears into work and doesn't surface for weeks. Maybe this has nothing to do with me at all.
Except it started right around when I showed up. So there's that.
"I like being busy. Besides, it's different when it's something you choose versus something you have to do." I curl deeper into the couch cushions, pressing my cold toes against Reid's thigh. He doesn't flinch, just drops his hand to warm them. That there is a real man. "When I was traveling, every day was planned out by someone else. Work schedule, living arrangements, even what equipment I'd be using. Now I get to decide how I want to spend my time."
"And you want to spend it giving flu shots to strangers?"
"I want to spend it helping people in a place I care about. There's a difference."
Reid sets down his paper and looks at me with that expression I'm getting used to — like I'm the best thing he's seen all day. It should feel like too much. It kind of does. But I also never want him to stop looking at me like that.
"You really love it here, don't you?"
"I really do." And it comes out easy. No hesitation, no qualifying. "I love having a routine and I?—"
My phone starts ringing from the kitchen counter, and I groan. "Ignore it. It's probably Bethany wanting to drag me out somewhere."
But the ringing stops and immediately starts again. That's not good.
Reid's hand stills on my ankle. "Maybe you should get it," he says, and that same awareness is in his eyes. "Might be important."
I untangle myself from him reluctantly, immediately missing his warmth, and pad to the kitchen. The caller ID makes my stomach drop.
Mom.
She never calls twice in a row unless something's wrong. It's almost noon here, which means it's evening where they are. They should be asleep.
Oh God.
"Hey, Mom," I answer, trying to keep my voice light.
"Laine, honey."
Mom's voice is tight. Controlled. The kind of controlled that means she's three seconds from losing it.
I know that voice. Grew up with that voice. It's the same one she used when I was eight and my arm bent the wrong way—all calm words and shaking hands. The "everything is fine" voice. The one that means nothing is fine.
"I need to tell you something about your father."
My knees go soft. I press my free hand flat against the counter.
"What happened?"
"He collapsed at the construction site this afternoon. We've been driving to the hospital for the past few hours — we're almost there. The doctor at the clinic thinks it might be his heart, but we won't know anything for sure until we get there and they can run proper tests."
The kitchen tilts. My fingers go white against the countertop. Reid's on his feet before I even realize he's moved — I hear the paper hit the floor, and then he's right there. Eyes narrow on my face.
"His heart? Mom, what does that mean? Is he okay? Are you okay?"
"Well, we don't even know what's wrong yet. It could be stress, dehydration, maybe just exhaustion. You know how your father pushes himself."
Dehydration. Exhaustion. Or a heart attack. Those are very different things.
