Page 23 of What We Brave
He shifts over on the step, making room. The invitation is silent, heavy.
I shouldn't sit. I should go inside, lock the door, and pass out. I should tell him to go to hell. But my legs feel like lead and he’shere. The gravity of him is pulling me in. For seven years, Blake has been the steady in my universe. When I spun out, he was the anchor. When I broke, he was the glue.
I sit. Not close. But on the same step.
I can smell him now. Underneath the travel funk—stale airplane air and sweat—there’s the faint, familiar scent of sawdust. How the hell does he still smell like sawdust? It’s like it’s seeped into his DNA.
"Why are you here?" I ask, staring at the weeds poking through the cracks in the driveway. "You didn't come back for the weather."
Blake reaches into his jacket pocket. His movements are slow, deliberate. He pulls out his phone, taps it, and hands it to me without a word.
I take it. The screen is cracked in the corner. The text conversation is open.
Laine.
My heart does a stupid, painful flip. I gave him her number so long ago. Just in case. I can't stop myself from scrolling up to see if there's more messages. From before.
There isn't. I scroll back down, and read her text.
My throat closes up, but right behind the grief is a hot, sharp spike of jealousy.
She reached out to him.
After everything he did to her, after the way he treated her, she still thinks he's the one who can fix me. She wouldn't give me five minutes in a parking lot, but she texted the guy who blew up our lives. It makes me want to put my fist through the windshield.
But she’s worried about me. After I shut down, after I suffocated her until she was terrified of me, she’s still trying to keep me breathing.
"When did you get this?" My voice is thick.
"I didn't turn it on the whole time I was over there, until two days ago."
Two days. He got this text and deployed the chute. Dropped everything. Got on a plane.
"So you came back because she asked you to."
"I came back because she said you were drowning." He takes the phone back, sliding it into his pocket. "I gave you space. It didn't work. You're worse."
"I'm working," I snap, defensive reflex kicking in. "I'm functioning. My bills are paid. The patients are alive."
"You look like a corpse, Reid. You’re vibrating."
"That’s the caffeine. And look in a mirror, asshole. You look like you haven't slept since the Bush administration."
He huffs a dry laugh. It’s a rusty sound, but it’s real. "Fair."
I lean forward, elbows on knees, matching his posture. The anger is still there, simmering, but underneath it is the confusion that’s been eating me alive since the workshop. The math doesn't add up. It never has.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask, staring at the asphalt. "If you were struggling that much. If you were... in love with her. Why didn't you just say it? We talk about everything. We talk aboutpoop, Blake. We talk about arterial spray patterns. Why couldn't you talk about this?"
"And say what?" Blake’s voice is low. " 'Hey, I'm in love with your girlfriend and it’s making me crazy'? You think that ends well? You think we high-five and grab a beer?"
"Better than this. Better than nuking all of our lives."
"Maybe. Maybe not." He picks at a loose thread on his jeans. His hands are rough, scarred, and usually steady. Right now, they’re trembling slightly. "I thought I could handle it. Thought I could shove it down until it went away. It was a tactical problem. I tried to solve it."
"By being a dick to her."
"By making her hate me." He says it simply, like it’s a completely rational plan. "If she hated me, she'd stop being kind. If she stopped being kind, maybe I could stop wanting her."
