Page 33 of What We Brave
The memories surface before I can stop them—months of walking on eggshells, monitoring my voice and my movements, the slow erosion offeeling like I belonged anywhere, the confusion of Blake's hot-and-cold behavior, moments of genuine connection followed by walls of ice.
"I told myself I was protecting Reid," Blake continues, and his voice is rough, unpolished, like he's dragging the words out. "But that's bullshit. I was protecting myself. And I took it out on you."
I don't know what to say because my throat feels too tight for words and I'm staring at my hands, at the way my knuckles have gone white around the purse strap. Him acknowledging it doesn't really make anything better. The damage is done.
And I don't know if those wounds will ever close.
"You didn't deserve any of it," he says, and when I finally look at him his jaw is working. "Not one moment. You were good, Laine. You were kind. And I couldn't handle it."
I have to look away, focus on a crack in the sidewalk, on the dried leaves collecting against the curb. Anything but look at the man that I have way too many complicated feelings for.
"I felt like I was going crazy," I say quietly. "For months. I kept thinking I must be doing something wrong, missing something obvious, because none of it made sense."
"You weren't." The words are firm, final. "It was all me."
We sit with that for a moment, the truth of it settling between us like something solid, and a car drives past blasting music that fades as it turns the corner.
"How's Reid?" I ask, and the question feels dangerous but necessary. Yeah, he scared me, badly. But I need him to be okay.
Blake's expression shifts and something complicated passes across his face. "He's—we're working on things. It's been hard. But we're figuring it out."
"Is he—okay? He wasn't before."
His shoulders drop, and his face softens. "He's eating. Sleeping. I've got him working out. He's better."
"Good." I mean it, I really do. The idea of Reid in the world, hurting, gave me way too many sleepless nights. Everything in me wanted to be the one who helped him. But there was too much between us. Too much baggage, too much hurt.
Another silence, and this one feels different, less jagged. "How's the restoration business?"
"Steady. Got a big project—Victorian mansion in Laurelhurst. Intricate millwork." A ghost of a smile. "Keeps me busy."
"That's good."
"Yeah."
We're being so careful with each other. I want to ask him more—about Afghanistan, about what happened with Reid, about why he never responded to my text—but it's none of my business. Not anymore.
"I'm sorry," Blake says again. "For all of it. I wish I could take it back."
"I know," I say, and I do, I can see it in every line of his body, the weight he's carrying.
The door of Henderson's opens and a familiar laugh cuts through the afternoon air, bright and unmistakable, and my stomach drops straight through the sidewalk.
Blake's head turns sharply.
Reid walks out carrying a canvas bag, talking to someone still inside, "—just come by the station—" and then he turns and sees us and every thought in my head whites out.
He freezes. The bag slips down his shoulder. His mouth opens, closes.
"Laine."
It's barely a whisper, like he can't believe I'm real, and I can't breathe, can't move, the bench is solid beneath me but the world feels like it's tilting because he looks good, healthy, the frantic desperate version of him is gone, his eyes are clear, his shoulders are straight, but the way he's looking at me?—
Oh God.
Like he's been afraid he'd never see again, and my heart is trying to break out of my ribcage and I don't know if I want to run toward him or away from him or just disappear into the sidewalk.
"Hi," I manage, and my voice cracks.
