Page 22 of What We Brave
And then I see it.
The Ford.
My foot stomps the brake pedal, truck lurching, the seatbelt locking against my chest hard enough to bruise. I don't breathe. I don't blink. I just sit there, the engine idling, staring at the dirty black truck like it’s a ghost.
No way.
Maybe Hatch dropped it off. Maybe someone stole it and politely returned it. Maybe I finally cracked, the sleep deprivation triggered a psychotic break, and I’m hallucinating vehicular transport.
But then the door of the truck opens.
The adrenaline dump is instantaneous. It floods my system, washing away the exhaustion and replacing it with a high-voltage hum that makes my skin itch.
He’s alive.
The relief is so sharp it makes me nauseous. Like blood rushing back into a limb that’s been numb for months.
Then the anger hits. Hot, fast, and blinding.
I kill the engine and shove the door open. The cold air bites through my uniform shirt, but I barely feel it. I’m already moving, my boots crunching on the gravel.
He looks like shit. I probably look like I’m strung out on uppers, but he looks... hollowed out. He’s bigger than I’ve seen him in a long time—broader in the shoulders, like he’s been doing nothing but lifting heavy things and carrying rucksacks for ninety days. But his face is gaunt. The lines around his mouth are deeper. His eyes are dead tired. He moves to the steps, and drops heavily onto the top one.
"Reid." His voice is rough.
I stop at the bottom of the steps. Three feet between us. Might as well be the Grand Canyon.
My hands are fists at my sides. I want to punch him. I want to grab him by the collar and shake him until his teeth rattle. I want to hug him until his ribs crack.
"You’re alive."
"Yeah."
"Three months."
He doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze, his face a mask of stoic acceptance. "Yeah."
"Three fucking months, Blake." I pace away from him, toward his truck, then spin back. I can't stand still. If I stand still, I’m going to explode. "No calls. No texts. Nothing. I had to callHatchto make sure you weren't dead in a ditch. Do you know what that’s like? Calling your former CO and begging for proof of life?"
"Hatch didn't tell me."
"I told him not to." I kick the tire of his truck. Hard. It fucking hurts. "I didn't want you to know I was checking. I didn't want you to know I cared. Not after you ghosted."
"You told me to get out, Reid." His voice is steady, calm. It pisses me off. "You said you never wanted to see me again."
"I was angry!" I shout it, the sound cracking in the quiet neighborhood. A dog barks somewhere down the street. "I stood in that workshop with blood on my knuckles and I was angry. But I didn't meandisappear. I didn't mean let me spend ninety days wondering if you were bleeding out in the Kandahar dust."
"What did you mean, then?"
The question stops me.
WhatdidI mean?
I drag a hand through my hair, gripping the roots. I replay that night in the workshop constantly. The look on his face when he admitted he loved her. The betrayal that felt like a knife in my gut.
"I wanted you to hurt," I admit, the fight draining out of me, leaving something hollow behind. "I wanted you to hurt as much as I was hurting."
Blake looks down at his boots. He nods, once. "Mission accomplished."
