Page 108 of What We Brave
"From the military?"
"From before that, actually." He glances at me, then back at theroad. "The military just... refined it." The corner of his mouth lifts. "You do it too, Laine. I've seen you at the camp. You're on alert."
"I don't — oh my goodness. You're right. I guess I do." Different reasons, maybe — I watch for medical crises, he watches for threats — but that constant low-level alertness? Yeah. I get it.
The Willow turns out to be a converted Victorian house tucked away on a side street. Inside, the lighting is warm and low, tables spaced far apart, soft music barely audible beneath the murmur of conversation.
We're seated in a booth against the back wall, the entire room visible in front of us.
Somehow, I don't think that's an accident.
"This is nice," I say, sliding in.
"I wanted somewhere we could actually talk." He settles across from me, but not directly across — slightly angled, so he can see the door. "Crowded places make it hard for me to... be present."
"Because you're always watching."
"Yeah." He picks up his menu, sets it down again. "I know it's weird."
"It's not weird. It's just..." I search for the right word. "Exhausting, probably."
He looks at me like he's searching for all my secrets. That's not unusual for him. He always looks at me like that. I used to find it unsettling. I think I'm getting used to it. "Most people don't get that."
"I work in an ER. I know what hypervigilance looks like." I reach across the table, touch his hand briefly. "How does it feel? Living like that?"
Blake considers the question. His thumb traces a pattern on the tablecloth.
"Honestly? I don't really know any other way." He shrugs, but there's weight behind the gesture. "It's just... how I've always been."
"Even as a kid?"
"Especially as a kid."
The waiter comes. We order — salmon for me, steak for him, a bottle of wine to share. When we're alone again, Blake doesn't makeme pry more details out of him. I was half expecting this date to be a lot of heavy lifting on my part. But everything is just flowing.
"My mom tried really hard. She worked two, sometimes three jobs. But we lived in neighborhoods where you learned to pay attention or you got hurt." He takes a breath. "I was the man of the house by the time I was eight. Checking locks, making sure she got home safe, learning which streets to avoid after dark."
Eight years old.I want to reach across this table and hold him. I want to go back in time and give that little boy a safe place to just be a kid.
"What happened to her?"
"Cancer. I was eleven." He says it flatly, the way people do when they've said it a thousand times but still feel the pain.
He picks up his wine glass. Takes a slow sip. Sets it back down precisely.
"After that, I came here to live with my grandpa."
"The woodworker grandpa."
A ghost of a smile. "Yeah. He taught me everything I know about restoration. About making broken things beautiful again."
The smile fades. He's quiet for a while, turning the wine glass by its stem.
"Living with him, I got to unlearn some of it. The constant watching." His voice goes softer. "He'd turned his whole garage into a workshop, and for the first time in my life, I could just... focus on something. Let my guard down."
"That sounds healing."
"It was." He pauses. Looks at the tablecloth. "For a while."
