Page 286 of What We Brave
Reid loops his arm around her waist. "She made a joke. That's progress."
"She made a joke to be polite."
"She made a joke because she'strying.That's different." He squeezes her side. "Eat a tamale."
"I'm not hung?—"
"Have you ever been sad while eating a tamale? No. Impossible. Science."
"That's not science, Reid."
"Emotional science. Emerging field. I'm a pioneer." He steers her toward the table. "Sit down. Eat."
She looks at him. And despite everything — the exhaustion, the fear, the rawness — she smiles. Small. Real.
There she is.
We eat in the shade of the building. Laine between us, her knee pressed against mine, Reid's arm across the back of her chair. We talk about the joists, the tin sheets, and whether the corner bracing will hold through the rainy season. And we talk about home, and argue over paint colors for our bedroom. We plan for the future.
"The fourth joist is going to need extra bracing," Laine says, peeling the husk off her second tamale. "That wood's softer than the rest."
"I know. I was thinking a sister joist."
"That's a lot of extra weight on the post."
"Not if we add a mid-span support."
Reid looks between us. "I understood 'weight.' That's the only word I got."
"You don't need to understand it," Laine says. "You need to hold things when we tell you to hold things and look pretty."
He gasps and presses a hand to his chest. "I am not some piece of meat. I'm a respected professional."
"And it's very impressive. Hold this." She hands him the tray.
He takes it. Looks at me. "I'm being oppressed."
"You're being useful. Different thing."
"Is it, though?"
I watch them. Reid stealing the last tamale off the tray. Laine swatting his hand and missing. Reid talking with his mouth full about how tamales should be classified as a controlled substance. Laine telling him to chew. Reid chewing dramatically, cheeks puffed, eyes wide.
If David Mitchell never says another word to me, I have this. If Mary never thaws, never comes around, never sees past the theology to the truth underneath — I still have a woman who's good through and through and a man that will have my back, even if he doesn't understand what the fuck is happening half the time.
That's enough. That's more than enough.
When we go back to work, David is at the northeast corner.
He's examining the joists we set — running his hand along the joint, checking the shims. He crouches down, sights along the beam the way a carpenter does — one eye closed, reading the line. Checking if it's true.
He stands. Moves to the next joist. Checks that one too.
After a minute, he walks over to where I'm standing. Doesn't look at me. Looks at the corner.
"The grain on that fourth joist." He nods toward it. "Wants to twist."
"I know. Shimmed the far end. Laine and I were talking about sistering it."
