Page 299 of What We Brave
The plane is small.Three seats on the left, two on the right, and the engine sounds like it's personally offended about being airborne.
Reid has the window because he called it before we even got to the airport — "Window seat or I'm not going, those are my terms" — and Blake has the aisle because he's Blake.
Which puts me in the middle. Any other company, maybe I'd complain, but I'm more than happy to spend the rest of my life between my guys.
Reid's already got his tray table down and he's arranging the snacks Mom packed — granola bars, dried mango, a bag of something that might be trail mix or might be another of Mary Mitchell's kitchen experiments.
"She put chocolate chips in the trail mix," he says, inspecting the bag. "I love your mother."
"You love anyone who feeds you."
"That's not true." He pauses, a little wrinkle between his brows. "Okay, it's a little true. But Mary's special. She tries so hard."
"She really does."
He tears open the bag. Pops a handful in his mouth. "Oh, these are good. Blake, try these."
"I'm good."
"You're not good. You're sitting there like a statue. Eat a chocolate chip. Experience joy."
Blake takes the bag. Eats exactly one chocolate chip. Hands it back. I cover my mouth to hide my smile. He's messing with him and I love it. Blake acts all innocent, but he pokes at Reid just as much as Reid pokes at him.
"Wow," Reid says. "Thrilling. Really let loose there."
"I ate the chip."
"You ateachip. Singular. That's not snacking, that's— that's pathetic. There's something wrong with you."
I lean back in my seat. Close my eyes. My body is heavy — the good kind of heavy. The kind that comes after you've been clenching for days and something finally lets go. Nothing is fixed. Mom is going to say something clumsy on a phone call next month and I'm going to have to breathe through it. Dad is going to go quiet on things he doesn't understand and I'm going to have to be patient with the silence. And I'm probably going to call Jamila from my bathroom floor at least twice before Christmas.
But they're in it. They'reinit. Not standing at arm's length. Not praying me back to normal. They're still my parents. We're still family.
Considering I'm the jerk who sprung it on them at the last minute, I'll take it.
Reid's hand finds mine on the armrest. His fingers thread through and I open for him automatically. His thumb traces a circle on my knuckle while he argues with himself about whether dried mango counts as a fruit serving.
I reach over with my other hand and find Blake's arm on the aisle armrest. His forearm is warm, dusted with dark hair. I slide my hand down to his.
His fingers open then close around mine immediately. His thumb settles against my wrist and stays.
He doesn't look at me. He's looking straight ahead, jaw set, the picture of a man with absolutely no feelings about anything.
But his grip tightens.
Sure, Babe. Very stoic. Very convincing.
"Okay," Reid says, turning from the window. "Important question. When we land, what's the first meal? Because I've been eating sandwiches, burnt things and tamales for a week and I love both but I need a burger. I need it spiritually."
"We're not getting burgers at the airport," Blake says.
"Why not?"
"Because airport burgers are a fucking crime."
"All burgers are beautiful, Blake. Don't be a food bigot."
Blake's lip curls in a sneer. "I'm not eating a twenty-dollar patty from a place calledSky Grill."
