Page 68 of What We Brave
Reid spots me and his whole face lights up. He waves with both hands. He's not trying to play it cool, and I love it. "You came! You're here. Under the giant taco. This is already the best night of the week." He's grinning, the big smile—the one that made me think staying might actually work. The one that made me believe love could be simple if you just wanted it enough.
God, I missed that smile.
He takes a step toward me, then catches himself. Rocks back on his heels. Still being careful. Still giving me space. But the energy is radiating off him—that barely contained Reid energy that makes the air around him vibrate.
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but..." He rubs his neck, and the bounce dims for half a second. "After everything, I wasn't sure." Then the grin reappears. "But you're here. So. Victory. I'm counting it."
Blake looks up, and our eyes meet for maybe half a second before he looks away, focusing on something over my shoulder. But in that half second, I see everything we're not saying.
The kiss. His confession. My apartment three days ago when we talked about nothing and everything for hours. The lie we're both keeping from Reid.
He's carrying all of it. I can see it in the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he's folded himself inward, taken up less room than a person his size should ever take up. Like if he shrinks enough, maybe the weight of it won't show.
I shouldn't have kissed him. I know that. I knew it then, too, which is the worst part—knowing something is selfish and doing it anyway because knowing felt more important than being good.
But instead of pulling away, I doubled down and kept the man at my apartment, talking, for way too long. The kiss was bad, but the talking, getting to know him, getting more comfortable with him, that was worse.
Because the more time I spend with him, the more I like him.
"Hey," he says, voice flat.
"Hey."
The words land between us like stones. Reid doesn't notice, thank god. Or maybe he does, because he's suddenly still.
Silence stretches. People flow around us, laughing and talking, but we're frozen in our little triangle of awkwardness.
Reid claps his hands together, breaking the tension. "So! Food first, right? There's this taco truck—Marco's. I've been stalking their Yelp page for like three days. The guy's from Oaxaca, uses his grandmother's recipe. Somebody described the carnitas as 'transcendent.' That's the actual word they used. Transcendent." He's already walking, talking over his shoulder, hands gesturing. "There's also Korean fried chicken, or this Thai place that supposedly does a green curry bowl that'll—but no. Tacos first. We can branch out later. This is a marathon, not a sprint."
Blake and I exchange a look. Not a loaded one—just the automatic glance of two people watching Reid be Reid.
"He's been planning this all week, hasn't he," I murmur.
Blake's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost. "You have no idea."
The crowd swallows us almost immediately.
Saturday night means bodies everywhere—families with strollers, drunk college kids, couples sharing overpriced kettle corn. The smell of grilled onions mixes with something sweet and the bass thump of music from somewhere deeper in the market.
Someone's elbow catches my ribs and I stumble. Suddenly the crowd feels less festive and more like a mob. Too many people, too close, pushing from all directions. It's not anything I haven't experienced before in cities around the world, but for Eugene, it's a lot. I'm out of practice.
Reid steps in front of me.
Not dramatically—just a shift, his shoulders angling to cut through the crowd like he's done this a thousand times before. Creating space for me to follow.
And Blake moves behind me. Close enough that I feel the heat of him through my jacket. Not touching, but there. A wall between me and whatever's coming from behind.
Suddenly, I'm not alone battling the crowds. I'm walking in a bubble. Protected.
Travelling with these guys would be amazing. No shoving or jostling, or worrying about the money in my fanny pack.
Reid clears the path. Blake guards my back. I move in the space they've made for me, and for thirty seconds it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Like this is how we're supposed to work.
The thought catches me off guard. Not because it's new, but because it reminds me of something. Maria and Sofia and Andrés in their tiny kitchen in Limón, moving around each other like they'd choreographed it. Three people, one rhythm.
