Page 210 of What We Brave
"Too late. It's a tricycle now. We're a tricycle, Blake."
He shakes his head, but there it is — the ghost of a smile. It's small, but I'll take it.
"She's still got one foot out the door," he says after a while. "Not with us. With... everything. The apartment. The life she set up in case this doesn't work."
"Maybe that's part of it," I say. "Today. The flinch. She's brave enough to hold your hand at a farmer's market but she's still paying rent on a place she doesn't live in. She's still half in. Course, we haven't talked about her moving in, even though I really, really want her to. But I don't want to spook her either. Slow and steady and all that shit."
Blake's quiet for a long time. Too long. I don't do quiet.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just—" He picks up the plane again, but doesn't use it. Just holds it. "Nothing yet."
I know that look. That's Blake building something in his head. I don't push.
We sit in the workshop while the lamp throws shadows across the walls and the sawdust settles and the afternoon turns to night. I pull out my phone, scroll through nothing. Blake runs his hand along the scrap of wood he's been planing, feeling the surface he's made smooth.
"Thanks," he says eventually. "For not letting me bury it."
"That's what I said to Laine."
"I know. I heard."
"Emotional support." I point at myself. "It's my new brand."
"Your brand is terrible."
"My brand isexcellent." I hop off the workbench. "Come on. Let's go make some supper with the fifty million tomatoes you bought. Tomorrow's going to be better."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It has to be. Statistically. I think."
"Real reassuring."
"I'm not a statistician, Blake. I'm emotional support. I'm staying in my lane."
39
BLAKE
Iscoop another handful of decomposed leaves out of the gutter and drop it into the bucket hanging off the ladder. The smell hits me—wet rot and standing water. Winter decay that sat around too long.
Matches my fucking mood.
Below me, Reid steps back studying the bush he’s hacking at. I’ll be shocked if the fucking thing survives the day.
Normal morning. Normal work. Normal Reid.
Except it's not. And we both know it.
I slept like shit. Maybe three hours, and most of that was the shallow kind where your body's down but your brain's still running laps. Kept replaying it—her hand letting go, the way my fingers closed on nothing, the rest of the market with my hands full of bags because full hands don't reach for people who already let go.
Reid slept on the couch. Not because anyone asked him to. He just... ended up there. Said he fell asleep watching something. Maybe true. Probably not.
Laine's still inside. She was up when I came through the kitchen—sitting at the table, both hands wrapped around her coffee, staring atsomething I couldn't see. She said good morning. I said good morning. We were so goddamn polite I wanted to put my fist through the drywall.
I scrape the trowel along the aluminum gutter. Another handful of rot. Another wet slap in the bucket. Shoulders, arms, back. The rhythm's good. Mindless. Keeps my hands busy.
