Page 127 of What We Brave
your back is fine you're just dramatic
Reid
BETRAYAL
from BOTH of you now
I see how it is
I pocket the phone, grinning.
Reid's been a surprise. A good one. I expected jealousy. Expected the tension to ratchet up every time I came home from a date with Laine, or held her hand, or kissed her in front of him. I braced for the fights. The ones where nobody says what they actually mean and everyone walks away bleeding.
But it hasn't been like that.
There've been moments. Small ones. A tightness around his eyes when Laine laughs at something I say. A beat of silence when she mentions our dates. Once, I caught him staring at us on the couch — something complicated moving across his face before he smoothed it away.
But nothing big. Nothing like what I feared.
And me? I keep waiting for the jealousy to hit. Waiting for the poison to spread through my chest when I see them together — when Laine curls up against Reid during movies, or when they kiss goodbye in the kitchen, or when I hear them laughing together through the walls.
It hasn't come.
And that's... confusing. Because I know what I'm capable of. I know the version of me that watched them from the outside for months and let it curdle into something toxic. That guy's still in here somewhere. He has to be.
So where is he?
Okay. Maybe a little. The tiniest flicker when Reid mentioned Laine stayed over last Tuesday — the night I was delivering the moulding in Seattle — and they made pancakes together in the morning. Some old reflex trying to sink its teeth in. Trying to twist it into something ugly.
But it passed. Quick. Easier than I expected. And that's the part I don't trust — how easy it's been. Because easy isn't something I get. Easy means I'm missing something. Easy means the bomb hasn't gone off yet.
Or maybe — and I know this is a radical concept — maybe things are just actually okay.
Maybe. I'm working on believing that.
"Blake!"
Laine's voice cuts through the crowd noise. I look up and find her three stalls ahead, frozen in front of a furniture display.
She's not moving. Just staring.
I weave through the browsers until I'm beside her. "What'd you find?"
She points.
It's a dresser. Old. Massive. Six drawers with brass pulls, carved details along the top edge, solid legs that have held this thing up for probably eighty years. My hands are already twitching — that automatic assessment again. The finish is shot. Water stains, scratches, years of neglect. One of the drawer fronts has a crack running diagonally across the grain.
It needs work. A lot of work.
But the bones are beautiful. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.
"Look at it," Laine breathes.
I look at her instead. At the way her eyes trace the lines of the piece, the way her hand reaches out like she wants to touch it but isn't sure she's allowed.
"It's huge," I say.
"I know."
