Page 32 of What We Brave
"Laine."
Blake's voice, closer now but not crowding, and when I glance back he's standing a careful three feet away with my purse in his hand.
Of course, he brought it out to me, of course he did, because I'm handling this so well, so calm and collected.
"You forgot this."
I take the bag and make sure our fingers don't touch. "Thanks."
He's studying me, those dark eyes taking in my face and my white-knuckled grip on the purse strap and the way I'm still half-turned toward escape, and I can see him calculating something, weighing what to say.
I mean, what is there to say? 'Sorry I blew up your life. Love what you've done with your hair.'
"I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't." The lie is automatic and even I can hear how unconvincing it is. His mouth tightens in something that's not quite a smile, not quite anything.
We stand there with three feet of February sidewalk between us and people navigating around us—a couple with coffees, a man with a dog, regular Saturday afternoon life happening. Meanwhile I'm trying to pretend my heart isn't trying to pound out of my ribcage.
"You look good," he says finally, and the words are so simple, so normal, they hit me sideways.
"You look alive," I blurt out, and then immediately wish I could take it back. "I mean—I didn't know if you'd made it home, if you were—Reid's truck was at the station sometimes so I knew he was okay but you were?—"
Stop talking, Laine.
"I got back about a month ago.".
"Did you—" I start, then stop, because maybe I don't want to know.
"Yeah." His voice is quiet. "I got your text."
My stomach twists and I don't know if it's relief or hurt or some terrible combination of both. "You didn't respond."
"I didn't know what to say." He shifts his weight and the flannel pulls tight across his shoulders. "Didn't know if you wanted me to. But thank you. Thank you for looking out for him. I thought—" he breaksoff, rubbing his hands along his stubbled cheeks. "Fuck. I thought if I stayed away, shit would get better."
It didn't. Not for anyone. Especially not for Reid. And it's not like Blake was out there sunning himself by a pool.
"How was—" I stop because how do you ask someone how their deployment was, how do you ask about surviving a war zone? "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He shifts his weight. "Better than I was."
I believe him because he looks solid, present, like he's actually inhabiting his body instead of just dragging it around, and something in my stomach unclenches just a little.
"Good," I say, and my throat is tight. "That's—I'm glad."
A beat of silence and a man squeezes past us with a cart full of lumber, muttering an apology, and Blake glances toward the corner of the building.
"There's a bench," he says. "Away from the door traffic. If you want."
I should say no. I should take my purse and go home and let this encounter end before it gets complicated, before I start feeling things I don't want to feel. But I've been wondering for four months if he was dead or alive, if he made it home. "Okay."
The bench is weathered wood and peeling green paint, tucked against the side of the building. Blake sits on one end and I sit on the other with my purse clutched in my lap like a shield, and for a long moment neither of us speaks.
"I owe you an apology," Blake says finally. "A real one. Not the half-assed version I gave you that night in the rain."
My fingers tighten on the purse strap. "Blake, you don't—" This wasn't in my plan for today. Yoga. Bookshelves. Takeout. Emotional devastation and painful conversations weren't on the list.
"Yeah, I do." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, looking at the sidewalk instead of at me. "I was cruel to you. Deliberately, repeatedly cruel. I made you feel unwelcome in a place that should have been your home."
