Page 177 of What We Brave
"It's fine."
It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. I'm standing in my living room at nine in the morning, unshowered, wearing yesterday's clothes, and the woman I love just drove away too fast and I can still smell her on my skin and my brain won't stop?—
The way she looked at me after. Like I was something worth looking at. Nobody looks at me like that. Nobody's ever?—
And then this morning she couldn't get out fast enough.
Reid moves into my line of sight. Plants himself there. Hands in his pockets, head tilted, watching me with a grave expression.
"What?" I say.
"You're doing the thing."
"I'm not doing a thing."
"The thing where you decide the worst possible outcome is guaranteed and then act like it already happened." He shrugs. "It's your signature move."
Because the worst possible outcome usually IS what happens. History isn't exactly on my side here.
But I don't say that. I just stand there, jaw tight, fists shoved in my pockets because I don't know what to do with my hands.
"Blake." Softer now. "We don't know what's going on. Maybe she really is having breakfast with Jamila. Maybe she needed to process. She processes externally — you know that. She needs a person."
"Or she's figuring out how to tell us it was a mistake."
"Or she's figuring out how to tell us it wasn't." He holds my gaze. "You heard her last night. About love. About staying."
I did hear her. I heard every word. I can replay them perfectly — her voice, her exact phrasing, the way her fingers traced patterns on my stomach while she talked. I stored all of it like evidence against the day when my brain would try to convince me it wasn't real.
Today's that day, apparently.
"What if I was too much?" The words come out before I can stop them. Raw. Stupid. "Yesterday. What if I scared her."
"Did she seem scared?"
No.She seemed... God. She seemed like she was right there with me. Every second. Her hands on my face, pulling me closer. Her voice sayingdon't stopand my name — she said my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.
"No," I admit. "She didn't seem scared."
"Then stop deciding she was."
He's right. I fucking hate when he's right.
"I need to do something," I say. "With my hands. I need?—"
"Laundry's in the dryer."
Laundry.Right. Sunday. Laundry day. Because the world keeps spinning and clothes keep getting dirty even when you're convinced the best thing that ever happened to you just drove away forever.
"Yeah. Okay."
Reid squeezes my shoulder as he passes. Heads into the kitchen. A minute later I hear him pulling out containers, the fridge opening and closing. Meal prep. His Sunday thing. The routines we built to keep ourselves sane — back when sane was the most we could hope for.
Now I'm hoping for more. And that's the scariest fucking thing I've ever done.
After a side quest cleaning every nook and cranny of the washing machine, then the rest of the laundry room, I dump the clean clothes on the couch and start sorting.
Fold. Stack. Repeat. T-shirts in one pile. Jeans in another. Socks that never have matches because there's some kind of black hole in the dryer that specifically targets my fucking socks. Never Reid's.
