Page 224 of What We Brave
She reaches across the counter again. Takes my hand. Holds on.
"You're always going to be their daughter," she says.
"You don't know that."
"I know you. And I know that anyone who raised you did something right. Give them a chance."
"That's terrifyingly optimistic coming from you."
"I have my moments." She squeezes my hand. "You don't have to figure all of this out tonight. The apartment, the parents, the big scary future — it doesn't all have to be decided right now."
"I know."
"But the chips do need to be thrown away."
I laugh. Watery, shaky, but real. "If you melt some cheese on them it'll disguise the taste."
She stays another hour. We finish the wine. We talk about other things. Kerry's new patient who keeps calling her "buddy." Their fight over microwaving fish too long and stinking up their house. Normal things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that reminds me I have a life outside the big terrifying questions.
When she leaves, Kerry's waiting in the parking lot. Jamila hugs me in the doorway. Holds on longer than usual.
"Whatever you decide," she says, "I'm in your corner. You know that."
"I know."
"And tell Blake and Reid I said hi. And that the boxwoods look terrible."
"How do you know about the boxwoods?"
"Reid sent Kerry pictures. Don't ever let that man near them again, Laine."
I'm still laughing when the door closes behind her.
The apartment is quiet.
Not the good kind of quiet. Not the kind at the house, where the silence has texture. The hum of the fridge. The distant sound of Blake doing something in the workshop. Reid's phone playing something too loud from another room. That silence is alive. Full. The comfortable quiet of a space that's actually being lived in.
This silence is just sad and empty.
I clean up the takeout containers. Wash the wine glasses. Wipe down the counter. It's tidy in seconds. This place, this life, is tidy. My guys are great at keeping the house, but there are always random things on the counters, stray clothes strewn across every surface like they're marking territory. If I lived here all the time, it would be so easy to keep clean. Just me, myself, and I.
What a depressing thought.
The bed is made. Of course it is. I pull back the covers and climb in, still in my clothes. The sheets are cool — not fresh-cool butvacant-cool. The particular temperature of fabric that hasn't touched a body in weeks.
I lie there.
The ceiling has a hairline crack I've never noticed before. Or maybe I noticed it months ago and forgot. Hard to say. Hard to track the details of a place you're only passing through.
I pull out my phone. Open the group chat.
Staying at my place tonight. Goodnight
Send.
Reid's reply comes in eight seconds. A sleeping emoji, a heart, and:Don't let the bed bugs bite. Do apartments have bed bugs? That feels like an apartment thing.
Then Blake. Just:Goodnight, Laine.
