Page 56 of What We Brave
I freeze, hand in mid-air. Blake has backed up against the doorframe, his eyes wide now, staring at me with something that looks a hell of a lot like panic.
"Woah," I say softly, putting my hands up, palms out. "Easy. It's just me. You're home."
He stares at me for a heartbeat longer, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then he blinks, and the panic is replaced by a crushing kind of misery. He looks down at his boots again.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "Startled me."
"It's okay."
My gut twists. He’s worse than I thought. The camp must have triggered something. Flashbacks. Afghanistan. He’s seeing ghosts again. I hate that he’s suffering, but part of me is relieved that I’m here to catch him. I can handle this. I can help him fix this. For once, I can help put him together.
"You need to decompress," I say, stepping back to give him a clear path. "Go grab a shower. Get that smoke off you. I'll heat up the food whenever you're ready."
"I'm not hungry," he says. He pushes off the wall, moving past me without making eye contact. He’s moving fast, like he’s escaping.
"Blake," I say.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs, his back to me. Rigid. Tension radiating off him in waves.
"You're doing good work out there," I tell him. "I know it takes a toll. But I'm proud of you."
His shoulders hike up, tight against his ears. He stands there for a long second, silent, vibrating with whatever demons he brought home with him.
"Proud," he whispers. "Fuck."
Then he takes the stairs two at a time, disappearing into the dark of the second floor. A moment later, I hear his bedroom door shut.
I stand alone in the kitchen, listening to the silence settle back over the house.
It’s fine. He just needs sleep. We’re stable. I’ll check on him in the morning.
"We're getting there," I say to the empty room. "We're gonna be fine."
13
LAINE
My tree is drunk.
That's the only explanation for why I'm swaying like a palm in a hurricane while everyone else in class holds their poses with serene stillness. My raised foot keeps sliding down my standing leg. My arms, supposedly branches reaching toward the ceiling, are wobbling like they're caught in a windstorm.
Blake's hands on my waist. The rough wool of the blanket between us. The way he tasted like coffee and cold air.
I tip sideways.
Jamila's hand shoots out and grabs my elbow, steadying me. We both lose our poses completely, and a giggle escapes before I can stop it. She snorts, which makes me laugh harder, and suddenly we're both shaking with suppressed laughter while the instructor shoots us a glare.
"Sorry," Jamila whispers, not sounding sorry at all.
I press my lips together and try to find my center again. Root down through your standing foot. Engage your core. Find a focal point.
His mouth opening under mine. The sound he made—half groan, half protest.
My tree crashes again.
Jamila doesn't even try to catch me this time. She just watches me stumble with raised eyebrows, her own pose annoyingly perfect.
The rest of class is a disaster. My warrior two looks more like warrior-who-stayed-up-all-night. My downward dog keeps collapsing. By the time we reach savasana, I'm so grateful to lie flat on my back that I almost cry.
