Page 92 of What We Break
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't. But I know he's tough if he raised you. And I know your mom's with him." His hand rubs slow circles on my back. "They've been taking care of each other for a long time, and it sounds like they know how to handle crises."
They do. Thirty-five years of crises — floods, earthquakes, political upheaval. They've handled all of it. But they're getting older. And bodies don't care how tough you are mentally.
Something starts to smell good from the stove. Reid gets up to stir it, then comes back to me, sitting right next to me this time. His hand lands on my knee under the table.
"When Jared died," he says quietly, "the thing that made it worse was how far away he was. How helpless we felt, not being able to do anything."
I turn to look at him. His jaw is tight. His eyes are somewhere else — somewhere seven years ago and thousands of miles away.
He hasn't talked about Jared much. But I love that he's sharing now. Not like this. He's giving me another little piece of himself.
"Reid..."
"I'm not saying this to make you feel worse. I'm saying it because I understand why you want to get on that plane." He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. His grip is tighter than usual. "The distance makes everything scarier."
"Sometimes I think my parents are crazy for living the way they do. Always in places where help is hours away, where a simple emergency becomes life-threatening." I lean my head against his shoulder. "Butthey've been doing it so long, I don't think they know how to live any other way."
"Do you ever worry about them?"
"All the time. Especially now that they're getting older." I close my eyes. "Dad's sixty-three. He should be thinking about retirement, not building churches in tropical heat."
Reid's lips press against my temple. "Maybe this will be a wake-up call for them."
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll be careful for a few weeks and then go right back to pushing themselves too hard." Because that's what Mitchells do. We push until there's nothing left to push against, or we collapse. Whichever comes first. Admirable and stupid in equal measure.
The timer goes off. Reid gets up, checks whatever he's made, ladles something into a bowl. Brings it back with crackers and a glass of water. Sets it all down in front of me like I'm something that might break if he moves too fast.
"Eat," he says, settling back beside me.
I take a spoonful. Canned soup with extra vegetables and what tastes like an entire head of garlic. Warm and uncomplicated.
"This is really good."
"It's just canned soup with extra vegetables. And a truly alarming amount of garlic, because garlic fixes everything." He pauses. "That's not medical advice. Please don't tell my patients I said that."
A snort escapes me. "Your secret's safe with me."
We sit quietly while I eat. His hand on my knee, thumb tracing patterns through the fabric of my pajama pants. Every few minutes his eyes flick to my phone on the table, then back to me. He's waiting too.
"I keep thinking about the time difference," I say. "It's tomorrow there already. Dad collapsed yesterday, our time. It feels like this has been going on forever, but for them it's only been a few hours."
"Time gets weird when you're worried about someone."
"Yeah." I set down my spoon and turn to face him. "Reid, what if I do have to go? What if he needs surgery or long-term care?"
"Then you go. We've been through this."
"But what about your life? Your work? I can't ask you to just put everything on hold?—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering." Reid's free hand comes up to cup my cheek. His eyes lock onto mine, and I forget what I was about to say. "Laine, I'm in love with you."
He says it simply. Like it's been true for a while and he's just now getting around to mentioning it.
My brain just — stops. Blank. Nothing. I'm in pajama pants with unwashed hair and snot on my sleeve from crying and this man just told me he loves me in my kitchen on the worst morning of my year. It's not really a surprise, we both admitted we were falling weeks ago. But the way he says it now, with no hesitation or doubt, still hits me.
"That means when your world falls apart, I help you put it back together," he continues, like he didn't just rearrange my entire nervous system. "I make you soup from a can. I book your flights if you need them booked. I sit here and hold your hand while we wait for news." He squeezes my fingers. “And if it comes to it we do the long distance thing and I use every bit of vacation time I have. That's how this works."
