Page 205 of What We Brave
Joyce pats his hand and releases it. "Well. I can see why Laine talks about you the way she does."
She sees him. Thank God, she sees him.
And that's the thing that twists the knife, isn't it? Joyce just met Blake and shegetsit. She's standing here treating him like he belongs — because he does, because Laine told her he does, because this woman alreadyknewabout all three of us — and Laine still dropped his hand.
Joyce already knew. There was nothing to hide. And Laine flinched anyway.
Don't be angry at her. She's already drowning. You can see it in her shoulders.
I'm not angry. I'm not. I'm just — I don't know what I am.
"So what's good today?" Joyce asks, peering into our bags. "Oh, those tomatoes look perfect. Where'd you find those?"
"Blake picked them," Laine says, and her voice is almost normal now. Almost. "He has a whole system."
I can see Blake work to engage. To participate in a conversation after the pain. "It's not a system. It's basic quality assessment."
"He squeezed eleven tomatoes, Joyce. Eleven."
"Vine-ripened produce deserves careful selection. Laine taught me that," Blake says, flashing a weak smile, and Joyce laughs — real, delighted — and for a second it almost feels okay.
Almost. Except I'm watching Laine watch Joyce accept Blake without hesitation, and I can see the shame building behind her eyes. She's connecting the same dots I already connected. Joyce was never the problem. The flinch wasn't protection — it was reflex. And reflexes tell you things about yourself you'd rather not know.
Joyce tells us about her husband's tomato plants. I ask follow-up questions because that's what I do — keep the ball rolling so nobody has to sit in the quiet and get weird about it. Blake offers something about soil acidity, and Joyce actually pulls out her phone to take notes, and it's good. Normal. The kind of easy, nothing interaction Blake almost never gets.
"You should come over sometime," Joyce says to Blake. "Harold would love to pick your brain."
"I'd be happy to take a look."
"Don't say that. He'll corner you for hours." She tucks her phone away and looks at the three of us. That warm, steady gaze. "You look good together, you know that? All three of you."
We did. About ten minutes ago, we really did.
"Thanks, Joyce," I say.
"I mean it." She points at Laine. "This one was running on fumes for months. Night shifts and too much coffee and not enough people in her corner. Look at her now."
"Joyce—"
"I'm just saying. Whatever this is—" she gestures at the three of us, "—it's working. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." She kisses Laine's cheek, squeezes Blake's arm, waves at me. "I've got to find Harold before he buys another plant he'll kill in a week. You kids enjoy your morning."
She disappears into the crowd.
We stand silent in the space she left behind.
Blake clears his throat. "We still need garlic."
Garlic. He's moving us to garlic. Because that's what he does — absorbs the hit, keeps the line moving, makes it easier for everyone else.
"Yeah," Laine manages. "Garlic."
We find the garlic. Basil. A jar of local honey. I carry bags to the truck twice — partly to be useful, partly because I need thirty seconds alone to breathe. Each time I come back, they're in the same configuration. Laine and Blake close but not touching, his hands full of bags because full hands don't have to reach for anyone.
And Laine looks completely miserable.
She doesn't reach for him again. I keep waiting for it. Keep watching her hand at her side, thinkingcome on, just take his hand, just do it, fix this.But she doesn't. And Blake doesn't offer. And I'm walking through this market holding my girlfriend's hand while my best friend carries all the bags alone and I want to scream.
This isn't how it's supposed to work. We were doing so well. Thirty minutes ago he was making jokes about the cheese stall.
