Page 16 of What We Brave
I didn't.
The drive home is a blur.
I try to distract myself. Laundry. Cleaning that doesn't need doing. A book I can't focus on.
But I keep seeing Reid's face. The hollowness. The way he couldn't even look at me.
And Tony's voice:He's just surviving. Barely.
Blake needs to know.
The thought won't leave me alone. He needs to know that Reid is falling apart. Whatever he was trying to accomplish by cutting everyone off—it's not working.
By midnight, I can't stand it anymore.
I dig through my phone until I find Blake's number. My thumb hovers over the screen.
What do I even say?
This is insane. He treated me like dirt for months. He manipulated everyone. He confessed he loved me like that made any of it okay.
But he also loves Reid. I know that in the deepest part of me. That's real.
And Reid loves him back. Even angry, even hurt—Reid still loves his brother.
I start typing before I can talk myself out of it.
Blake, it's Laine. Reid doesn't know I'm texting you.
I stare at the words. My finger hovers over send.
I saw Reid today. He looks bad. Really bad. Tony says he's barely eating, working doubles just to avoid going home. He's not okay, Blake. He's falling apart and I don't know how to help him.
I know you're dealing with your own stuff. I know things ended badly between all of us. But he needs his brother. He needs to know you're okay. He needs SOMETHING.
You told me you stayed to hold him together. Well, you're gone, and he's in pieces. Come fix this.
Please.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
4
BLAKE
The bolt carrier group of the M4 is clean. It was clean an hour ago. It was clean yesterday.
I run the rag over the parkerized steel anyway. The smell of CLP—chemical, sharp, biting—is the only thing that clears my head. It cuts through the pervasive scent of dust and unwashed bodies that clings to everything in this country. It doesn't matter how comfortable they make this camp, it's still pretty basic. Three minute showers and dust coating everything all the time means you're dirty all the time.
But not the weapons.
The mess hall is empty. The plastic chairs are upturned on the tables, legs pointing at the ceiling like dead insects. It’s 0200. The witching hour. The time when the adrenaline from the day’s patrol bleeds out, leaving nothing behind but the silence. And the silence is where the ghosts live.
I push the rag into the firing pin recess. Twist. Pull. Inspect.
Carbon buildup is the enemy. Friction is the enemy. If the machine isn't perfect, it jams. If it jams, you die. Or worse, the guy next to you dies.
I focus on the metal. Cold. Unfeeling. Predictable. If you treat it right, it works. It doesn't have complicated feelings. It doesn't fall inlove with its best friend's girlfriend. It doesn't destroy decades of brotherhood from weakness.
