Page 230 of What We Brave
It's easy. It's good.
I help Blake clear the dishes. Laine pours herself a glass of wine.The kitchen is warm and smells like garlic and the evening is settling into its routine — couch, something on TV, the slow drift toward bedtime and the question nobody wants to ask.
Whose room tonight?
"So can we talk about something?" I say.
Blake turns off the faucet. Laine looks up from her glass.
"This morning," I say. "The scrubs thing."
"Reid, I wasn't mad at you about the dumbbells?—"
"I know. That's not—" I lean against the counter. "It's not about the dumbbells. It's about..." I look at Blake. He's drying his hands on the dish towel, watching me. Waiting. "It's about the bed situation."
Silence. The fridge hums.
"Okay," Laine says carefully.
"I've been counting." It comes out before I can package it better. "Which room you sleep in. How many nights with me, how many with Blake. And I hate that I'm counting because it makes me feel like a jealous asshole, and I'm not jealous, I'm just?—"
"You miss her," Blake says.
I look at him.
"On the nights she's not with you," he says. "You miss her."
"Yeah." My throat's tight. Stupid. "I just want to go to sleep next to both of you and wake up next to both of you, well, mostly Laine, and not have it be a — athingevery night. I don't want to count anymore."
Laine sets her wine down. "I've been counting too."
"You have?"
"Of course I have. Do you think I don't notice? Every night I'm doing math in my head — who did I sleep with last night, whose turn is it, is Blake going to say he's fine when he's not, is Reid going to joke about it when he's hurting?—"
"I don't joke about?—"
"You do." She's not accusing. Just honest. "And Blake goes quiet. And I'm the one in the middle trying to make it fair and it's never fair because there are two of you and one of me and someone always wakes up alone."
The kitchen is very quiet.
Blake folds the dish towel. Sets it on the counter. Precise. Neat.
"I've been thinking about the layout," he says.
We both look at him.
"The third bedroom. It should be Laine's. Her own space. Couch, books, door she can close." He pauses. "I'm working on something for that room. Workshop's off limits until it's done."
Laine's eyes soften. "Blake?—"
"And the downstairs room," he continues. Not looking at either of us. Looking at the dish towel he just folded. "It's bigger than either of ours. Has its own bathroom. It's dated, but?—"
"Wait." My brain catches up. "You mean?—"
"One room. One bed. Big enough for three."
I stare at him.
