Page 175 of What We Brave
"I'm havingfeelings. Which apparently I process by fleeing to diners and dumping everything on my friends over cold pancakes."
"That's literally what friends are for." She squeezes my hand. "Feel better?"
The panic is still there — I can feel it at the edges, that restless hum under my skin that whispersrun. But underneath it, something else. Something steadier.
"Yeah," I say. "I think I do."
"Good." She pulls out her wallet. "Now go home to your boyfriends and tell them what you just told me. The fear. The doubt. All of it." She grins. "Communication. That thing healthy relationships are built on."
"When did you get so wise?"
"Therapy. Lots of therapy." She stands. Drops cash on the table. "Also I expect updates. Not sex stuff—" she holds up a hand. "I can live without those. But the emotional stuff. I want to know how this goes."
"Deal."
I hug her in the parking lot. Hold on maybe a little too long.
"Thank you," I mumble into her shoulder.
"Always." She pulls back. Looks at me with that steady, loving gaze that I am so grateful for. "You've got this, Laine. I mean that."
There's so much about my life here that I love. I can't remember the last time I had a friend like Jamila. Someone so present. Someone I could trust with the truth, all of it, even the messy embarrassing parts about breaking dressers and couch orgasms and loving two men at the same time.
This is what staying gets you. People who know you.
I get in my car. Check my phone.
Two texts. One from Reid.
Everything okay?
One from Blake.
Take the time you need. We're here.
We're here.
Even their texts are different. Reid checking in, needing to know,reaching for connection. Blake holding space, offering patience, sayingI'll be right here when you're ready.
Two men. Two kinds of love. Both real. Both mine if I'm brave enough to keep them.
I start typing a response. Delete it. Start again.
Just tell them you're coming back. That's the whole thing. Show up.
On my way home.
I stare at the word.Home.I didn't mean to type that. I meant to typeback.On my way back.
I send it anyway.
Then I sit in the parking lot for another thirty seconds because my eyes are blurry and I shouldn't drive while crying. Again. Twice in one weekend. New record.
Get it together, Mitchell. You're going home. That's all. You're just going home.
I put the car in reverse. Pull out of the parking lot. Head back to them.
The drive takes twelve minutes. My brain fills every single one of them.
