Page 37 of What We Brave
BLAKE
The only sound in the cab is the rhythmicthwack-hissof the wipers fighting the February drizzle.
I keep my eyes on the wet pavement, but my peripheral vision is locked on Reid. He’s staring out the passenger window, his forehead resting against the glass, breath fogging the pane. He hasn't said a word since we watched Laine walk away down the street, clutching her purse like a shield.
My hands are tight on the wheel. Too tight. I force my fingers to relax, one by one, but the tension just migrates to my jaw.
Checking the parking lot.
That’s the part that’s stuck in my throat like a splinter. Laine, who has lived in war zones, who handles trauma patients without flinching, was checking the parking lot before she walked to her car because she was afraid ofReid.
I pull the truck into our driveway. I kill the engine. The silence rushes in, heavy and damp.
Reid reaches for the door handle.
"Don't," I say.
He freezes. His hand drops. He doesn't look at me.
"You fucking scared her," I say. It’s not a question.
"Yeah."
"I haven't seen you like that since after Jared died. With that woman."
Reid flinches. It’s small, just a tightening of the muscles in his neck, but I see it.
"I know," Reid says quietly.
"I thought we were past that." I turn in my seat, the leather creaking. "I thought you were past that."
"But it was different this time," Reid continues, voice rough. "When Jared died, you were there. You dragged me out. You stayed." He swallows hard. "This time you were both gone. And every time I saw a report about an IED, I thought—" His voice cracks. He doesn't finish.
The cold spreads through my chest. I left him alone. Both anchors gone at once. I did to him exactly what losing Jared did.
"I left you the same way we lost Jared." The words taste like poison. "Just gone."
"Yeah." Reid's jaw tightens. "You did."
The silence sits heavy between us. Rain drums on the roof.
"And I still stopped," Reid says finally. "Joyce told me what I was doing and I heard her. I stopped on my own. Because you weren't coming back to save me this time."
I study him. He’s right. The last time, seven years ago, I had to physically intervene to stop the spiral. This time, he pulled the brake himself. Late, yeah. Too late for Laine’s peace of mind. But he did it.
"Joyce is a scary woman," I concede.
"She is." Reid lets out a breath that ghosts in the cold air. "But it wasn't just fear of Joyce. I realized I was hurting Laine. And that woke me up."
I nod slowly. The anger is still there, a low hum in my chest, but the sharp edge of it is dulling. He’s not the same kid who fell apart after Jared. He’s damaged, sure. We both are. But he’s trying to bear the weight of it differently.
"You can't go dark like that again," I say. "Not with her. Not if you want a chance in hell of fixing this."
"I won't. I'm doing the work. Therapy. Meetings. The whole nine yards."
"Good."
We sit in the silence for another minute. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not volatile anymore. It’s just the heavy, wet reality of February in Oregon.
