Page 95 of What We Break
"I don't brood," I mutter, reaching for the pry bar.
"You're brooding right now. You're brooding at the drywall." Reid throws a gummy worm at me. It bounces off my shoulder. I pin him with a dead ass stare, but of course it has absolutely no effect on him. "Eat the worm, Blake. It'll raise your blood sugar. You get grumpy when you're low. See. Grumpy face. It's starting already."
I pick up the worm, and fling it at his head, hitting him right in the middle of his forehead. He wobbles for a second, but unfortunately manages to keep his perch. The bathroom is small—maybe six by eight—and with Reid on the tub and me on the floor, there isn't much room but Laine manages to slide in next to us, and picks up my scraper.
"If you want to save that trim," she says, pointing to the baseboards I was dreading removing, "we should score the paint line first so it doesn't peel the paper off the drywall. Do you have a utility knife?"
She’s right. And she’s asking for the right tool.
It would be easier if she was talking out of her ass. Then I could send them away so they don't fuck anything up. But she sounds like she knows exactly what she's talking about, and if I have to do this myself, I may just say fuck it and tear everything out, which would feel good today, but would piss me off every time I look at this bathroom after that.
I hand her my spare blade—my good Japanese one, not the cheap hardware store one. "Be careful. It's sharp."
"I'd hope so." She takes it, her fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second and tingles travel up my arm. My reaction to her is so fucking inconvenient.She's Reid's girl. Smarten the fuck up.
We fall into a rhythm. I tackle the plumbing—the ugly, necessary work—while Laine handles the wood. She’s gentle with it. She works the pry bar behind the trim slowly, listening for the creak of the nails giving way, careful not to snap the eighty-year-old oak.
A lot of people just rip and tear. They don't care about the grain or the age. Laine treats the wood like it matters. Fuck if that doesn't make me like her even more.
Getting the fuck out of this room, and away from her would be the smart move. But I can't do it. Because of the project. I have to finish what I start. I can't walk away, even if it might save me from her.
Fuck my life.
I try to focus on Reid lying in the empty bathtub, feet up the wall, being annoying. But it's like trying to focus on a mud puddle when there's a rainbow right in front of you.
"You're doing it right," I say after a few minutes, the words slipping out before I can check them.
She looks up, a smudge of dust on her cheek and grins. "High praise from the master craftsman."
"I'm serious. Most people would have snapped that miter joint by now."
"I told you," Reid says around a mouthful of candy. "She's a keeper. I bet you five bucks she gets that whole wall down in ten minutes."
"I'm not betting on your girlfriend's manual labor, Reid."
"Coward. Ten bucks says she finds a dead mouse."
"Reid," Laine warns without looking up. "If I find a mouse, I'm throwing it at you."
"Kinky."
Her laughter is low and a little raspy.
Sexy.
Rein your shit in, Moore. Don't go there.
I keep my head down, working on the pipe threads, trying not to listen to how easy they joke around. It feels like home. It feels comfortable. It's everything I don't have but wish I did.
We work for another hour. The air gets thick with dust and heat. Every time I move to grab a tool, I have to be hyper-aware of where Laine is so I don't bump into her. It’s exhausting. Not the work—the work is easy. It’s the constant, low-level panic of trying to keep my distance in a room the size of a closet.
Eventually, Reid climbs out of the tub. "Okay, morale is dropping. I need to go to the hardware store for the pipes you wanted. And real food, because worms are not a meal, apparently."
"Get Thai," Laine says. "Extra spicy."
"You got it. Blake? You want your usual?"
"Yeah."
