Page 119 of What We Brave
I sniff pathetically. "Chocolate. With chocolate sauce."
"That's my girl."
The ice creamis obscenely good.
We're parked in Reid's truck behind the shop, engine running for heat, wrapped in a wool blanket he pulled from behind the seat. The windows are fogging up from our breath, and the dashboard glows soft blue-green, turning the cab into this strange little cocoon. The heater rattles on its highest setting — not quite winning against the cold but trying hard.
"This is ridiculous," I say around a mouthful of chocolate. "It's freezing."
"You said chocolate with chocolate sauce." Reid gestures at my cup. "I delivered."
"You did." I take another bite. My teeth ache from the cold. Worth it.
Reid watches me eat. His own cup sits in the cupholder — vanilla, barely touched. He keeps glancing at it and then back at me, like he forgot it exists.
"Stop watching me eat. It's weird."
"I'm not watching you eat. I'm monitoring your chocolate intake for medical purposes."
"Oh, is that what they teach you in EMT school?"
"Advanced module. Emotional Triage via Dairy Products. I got the highest score in my class."
I almost smile. Almost.
He drops the bit. "Is it helping? The dairy product triage?"
I actually think about it before answering. My eyes are still swollen, and when I let myself remember that husband's face — the way he just stood there, waiting like he already knew — something behind my ribs flinches. But it's not the same sharp, can't-breathe thing from before. More like a bruise I can move around.
"Yeah," I say. "It actually is."
"Good."
That's it. No follow-up. No "want to talk about it?" No armchair psychology about why two scoops of chocolate ice cream can do what rational thought can't. He just sits there in the blue-green glow of the dashboard, one hand loose on the steering wheel, and lets me have the quiet.
"You know what this feels like," I say quietly. "Losing someone."
Reid's jaw tightens. Just slightly. "Yeah."
"How do you do it? Keep showing up?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Outside, someone walks past the truck, bundled against the cold, breath making clouds. March isn't supposed to be this cold.
"I think about the ones I saved," he says finally. "Not to cancel it out.You can't cancel it out. But to remind myself that showing up matters, even when it doesn't work."
I nod slowly. Scrape the bottom of my cup.
"Blake would get it too," I say. And it's not a thought I planned — it just surfaces, natural and true. "I keep thinking... if he were here right now, I wouldn't have to explain any of this to him either. He's seen things. Done things."
Something flickers through me — not just missing Blake's understanding, but missing him. The weight of his arm. The solid wall of his chest.
I catch the thought and file it away. Which is a fun thing to do while I'm literally wrapped in Reid's blanket like some kind of emotional freeloader.
Reid doesn't tense at Blake's name. A few weeks ago, he might have. Now he just nods.
"You could call him," Reid says. "He'd want to know you had a rough day."
"I know." I set my empty cup aside. "But I'm here with you. This is our night."
