Page 183 of What We Brave
My jaw works. I look at the shirt. At the pile. At my own stupid hands.
"Yeah," I manage. "I did."
She doesn't say anything. Just presses the sweater against her chest and leans into me. Her nose against my collarbone. Her breath warm through my shirt.
Okay. So she knows I'm a lunatic. And she's still here.
From the laundry room, a crash. Then Reid's voice:
"WHERE IS IT."
Laine lifts her head. "What?—"
Another crash. The dryer door banging open. Something metallic hitting the floor.
"My sock." Reid appears in the doorway, wild-eyed, holding up a single black sock with a gray toe. "My GOOD sock. The left one. It's gone. Blake, did you see a black sock with a gray toe?"
"No."
"It was IN the dryer. I put it in the dryer MYSELF. Matched pair. Two socks. Now there's one sock." He shakes the orphan at us like evidence. "This is the third time this month."
"Maybe check behind?—"
"I CHECKED behind the drum. I checked the lint trap. I checked the floor." He's pacing now. Full Reid spiral. "There's something happening in that dryer, Blake. Something sinister. Socks don't just vanish."
"It's a sock, Reid."
"It's not JUST a sock. It's the good sock. The one without the weird seam that digs into my toe." He turns to Laine. "Tell him. Tell him that socks matter."
Laine's shaking against my shoulder. Trying not to laugh. Failing.
"Socks matter," she manages. Barely.
"Thank you." Reid points at her, then at me. "She gets it."
He disappears back into the laundry room. More banging. The dryer drum spinning. A muffled "HA" followed by silence, followed by a defeated "no. That's a dryer sheet."
Laine buries her face in my chest. Her whole body vibrating with suppressed laughter. The purple sweater bunched between us.
I rest my chin on top of her head.
From the laundry room: "I'm filing a complaint. With the dryer. And with God."
"You do that," I call back.
Laine's laughing so hard she's making no sound. Just shaking. Her fingers curled into my shirt.
This. Right here.
Her sweater in my laundry. Reid losing his mind over a sock. Sunday afternoon. Nothing special. Everything special.
"Found it!" Reid yells. "It was in a PILLOWCASE. How does a sock get inside a pillowcase? That's PREMEDITATED."
"Congratulations," I say.
He comes back into the living room, triumphant, holding up both socks like a trophy. Sees Laine curled against me, still shaking. Sees the purple sweater.
His face softens for just a second. Then he grins.
