Page 62 of What We Brave
Ican't fucking take this anymore.
Four days since I kissed her back. Since I dumped her off my knee like she'd burned me and paced the frozen ground like a lunatic. Since she looked me in the eye and said it felt like something.
Fuckingsomething.
And I've been lying to Reid the whole damn time.
I've been sitting in my truck for forty fucking minutes. Parked across from her building. Haven't even let myself drive past her place since the night I came here. Since I confessed everything.
I shouldn't be here.
The thought loops and loops but my hand doesn't reach for the ignition. I just sit here like an asshole, watching the entrance, waiting for?—
What. What am I waiting for.
Permission, maybe. Some sign from the universe that showing up uninvited won't make everything worse than I've already made it.
That night at the camp won't stop playing. Her cold hands on my face. The shock of her mouth against mine. The way my whole body went bright and stupid and alive for three perfect seconds before my brain caught up and screamed what the fuck are you doing.
And then Reid. Standing in the kitchen when I got home, looking at me with concern instead of suspicion. Asking if I was okay. Telling me he wasproudof me.
Proud.
I almost puked right there on the linoleum.
"Rough night?" he'd asked, all gentle and careful, like I was something fragile.
And I'd lied. Not directly—I just didn't correct his assumption. Let him think I was triggered by the camp, by memories, by anything other than the truth.
The truth being that I'd kissed his girl. Or she'd kissed me. Or we'd kissed each other. Does the order even matter when the result is the same?
It felt like something.
Her voice haunts me. The way she said it—quiet, sure, terrified. Like she was confessing a crime.
Maybe she was. Maybe we both were.
Movement. Corner of my eye.
Laine.
She's in scrubs, hair pulled back, bag over one shoulder. Even from here I can clock the exhaustion—the drag in her step, the way her shoulders curve inward. Long shift. The kind that hollows you out.
The last thing she needs is to see me.
Leave.I grip the steering wheel hard enough to hear my knuckles pop.Start the truck and go. You have nothing to offer her except more complications.
My hand's already on the door handle.
Feet already hitting pavement.
Goddammit, Blake.
"Laine."
She freezes. Turns. Her face cycles through surprise, something that might be relief, then goes carefully neutral.
"Blake." She doesn't move toward me. Doesn't bolt either. Just stands there with her keys in hand, watching me. She sees too fucking much. "What are you doing here?"
