Page 294 of What We Brave
Careful.
There it is.
Five days of that smile. Of my mother being lovely and gracious and keeping me at exactly the distance I told her I was afraid of. And the worst part — the part that makes me want to scream — is that she's not doing it on purpose. She's not punishing me. She's just... scared. And scared Mary Mitchell defaults to kind and competent. To feeding people and organizing things and holding it all together from a safe distance.
I know because I do the same thing.
Genetic. Fantastic. We're both emotionally avoidant and bad at rice.
Dad hasn't brought up what I told him at the fire. Not once in five days. He's talked to Blake about joists and shims and grain patterns. He's asked Reid about his work at the station. He's been warm andprofessional and present and he has not said one single word about the fact that his daughter is in a relationship with two men.
Which is very on-brand for David Mitchell. The man once drove fourteen hours through Venezuela without mentioning he'd broken two toes loading a truck that morning. My mother found out when his foot turned purple at dinner.
He processes internally. I know that. He needs time. Iknowthat too.
But we leave tomorrow morning. And I don't think I can give him any more time.
I push a piece of blackened bread around my plate. My stomach's been doing this low, constant churn all day. I kept telling myself the conversation would come naturally. That one of them would bring it up. That Mom would sit me down, or Dad would say something quiet and real while we worked, orsomethingwould crack the surface of this unbearably polite holding pattern.
Nothing cracked. We just... orbited. Close enough to see each other. Too far to touch.
So do it yourself, Mitchell. You dropped the bomb. You don't get to wait for them to clean it up.
I look at Blake.
He's already looking at me.
Fork down. Glass half-raised. Those dark, steady eyes reading me like a freaking book. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Months with this man and I've stopped being surprised that he knows what I need before I do.
He sets his glass down.
"Reid. Let's go check the bracing on the northeast corner."
Reid blinks. "We checked it this afternoon."
"Want to check it again."
"It's — Blake, it'sdark—"
"Bring the flashlight."
Reid looks at Blake. At me. At Blake again. I watch his face cycle through confusion, comprehension, and then that quick, quiet shift where the jokes fall away.
"Right." He pushes back from the table. Grabs his sandwich —because of course he does — and squeezes my shoulder as he passes. His thumb digs into the muscle. Quick. Firm.Right here. Not far.
Blake stops at the door. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't need to. One look — solid, certain, every single thing he won't say in front of my parents compressed into that half-second of eye contact — and he's gone.
They have my back. And right now, having my back means letting me sit in this room and facing the mess I made.
Reid's voice fades across the yard. Something about flashlights and how he's going to get eaten by something and Blake is going to have to explain it to Laine.
And then it's the three of us.
Mom. Dad. Me.
The kitchen is quiet. Small. Everything in the guest house is small — the table, the chairs, the two-burner stove where the grilled cheese met its fate. Through the window I can hear the village settling into evening. A dog barking. Kids being called inside.
Mom starts clearing plates. Automatic. Muscle memory. When Mary Mitchell doesn't know what to do with her hands, she cleans.
