Page 95 of What We Brave
"I keep thinking about the logistics," he says finally.
"The logistics. Super romantic. Very encouraging."
"What does Tuesday night look like? What does Saturday morninglook like? She comes over and we all just... sit on the couch and watch TV?"
"I mean, maybe? I don't know." I'm already off the stool. Can't help it. I hop up on the workbench instead, legs dangling. Blake gives me the look — the one that saysdon't sit on my workbench— but doesn't say anything. "I keep trying to picture it and my brain just stalls out. Like a computer with too many tabs open and half of them are playing different music."
"Same."
"Ok. Good talk. Glad we got this figured out." I snag a scrap piece of wood off the bench and flip it end over end between my fingers. "Okay but seriously. She's here. We're all hanging out. That part I can actually see. That's basically what we were already doing before everything imploded. Movie night, tacos, me beating you both at cards?—"
"You've never beaten me at cards."
"I've beaten you at cards multiple times."
"You'vecheatedat cards multiple times."
"Irrelevant. The point is—" I gesture with the wood scrap. "Normal stuff. Hanging out. That works. But then it's nighttime and she's..." I make a vague sleeping motion with the wood scrap. Realize it looks obscene. Stop. "You know."
Blake goes very still.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
"Because there's one of her. And two of us. And unless someone's building a second master bedroom — which, actually, you probably could, you've got the skills?—"
"Reid."
"I'm just saying it out loud because somebody has to. And you sure as hell weren't going to." I toss the wood scrap in the air, catch it. "I'm not trying to be weird about it. But we live in the same house. The walls are pretty thin."
Blake scrubs a hand over his face. The rasp of his palm against stubble is loud in the quiet.
"I don't have an answer for that," he says.
"I know."
"I don't think we figure that out in a workshop."
"We could draw up blueprints. You love blueprints."
He almost smiles. Almost. "Shut up."
"I'm serious though." I miss my next catch and the wood scrap clatters onto the concrete. Neither of us picks it up. "Not about the blueprints. About the — how does this work when it's real and daily and not just an idea we're kicking around? What happens when she wants to spend time with you and I'm just... there? In the next room? Knowing?"
"Knowing what?"
"Come on, man. Don't make me spell it out."
"I'm not trying to be?—"
"Knowing you're with her. All of it. The whole deal." The words scrape on the way out. "I said it made sense when she kissed you. And it did. In the moment. But that's one kiss in a living room while we were all having emotional breakdowns. That's not the same as a regular Wednesday night where she's in your room and I'm watching TV alone trying not to think about it."
Blake's hands find the chisel again. Turning it over and over.
"I can't promise you it won't hurt," he says finally. "I'd be lying if I did. And I can't promise I'll handle it well either — you being with her. I've been living with that for months and it damn near destroyed me."
"Right. So we'd both just be... walking around with that. All the time."
"Or we talk about it when it gets bad." He puts the chisel down. Deliberately. Like he's making himself stop. "Instead of doing what we always do."
