Page 98 of What We Brave
"Cool. Great track record. Very reassuring."
I grab the stool and drag it back to its usual spot by the workbench. Blake stays on the couch, slumped back against the cushions. He looks exhausted. But the thing that's been living in his shoulders for months — that constant bracing, like he's always waiting for the next hit — is dialed down a few notches. Not gone. But quieter.
"For the record," he says, still staring at the ceiling, "I meant what Isaid. About not knowing if I'll handle it well. You and her. Being here when you're..." He stops. Swallows. "I'm not going to pretend that doesn't exist. Or that I handled it well before."
"I know. Same goes for me." I shove my hands in my pockets. "But I'd rather be bad at this than spend the rest of my life wondering. I've done enough of that."
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "Same."
We sit there a while longer. Not talking. Not needing to. The workshop settles around us — the sawdust smell, the fluorescent buzz, the creak of old springs when Blake shifts his weight.
Tomorrow we'll call Laine.
Tomorrow we'll start trying to build something none of us can picture yet.
Tonight?
"Wanna get drunk?"
21
BLAKE
The nail gun kicks against my palm.Thwack.
Another nail into the rotting frame.Thwack.
February in Oregon means gray skies and that damp cold that seeps through every layer. Mid-forties, maybe, but it feels colder. The kind of wet that settles into your bones and doesn't leave until July.
The garage is a disaster. Has been for years. Reid's been on me about it since I got back—but not for the reasons he's pretending.
"You sure we can't just move the workshop in here?" he asks from somewhere behind me. He's supposed to be sorting the pile of salvageable lumber from the stuff that's too far gone, but mostly he's been pacing. Bouncing on his heels. Picking things up and putting them down. "It's closer to the house. Better lighting. We could run a heating line from the main?—"
"No."
"You'd be right here. No more trudging through the rain at two in the morning?—"
"No." I line up another nail.Thwack."Workshop stays where it is."
What he really means is:If your workshop is attached to the house, maybe you'll stop sleeping out there. Maybe I can keep an eye onyou. Maybe you won't disappear into the sawdust for three days straight.
He's not wrong to worry. But I'm not moving the workshop.
I need the distance. The buffer zone between me and everything else. A place to disappear to when the walls start closing in. He doesn't have to like it , but he does have to respect it.
"Fine." He sighs, all dramatic. "Gym it is, then. Since you came back looking like you're about to compete for Mr. Olympia."
I snort. "Fuck off."
"I'm serious. You can barely put your arms down anymore. You walk like you've got invisible watermelons under your armpits."
"That's not—" I set the nail gun down. Flex my shoulders. They are tight. Everything's tight. "It's not that bad."
"Dude. You split a shirt last week."
"That shirt was old."
"It was aflannel. Those things are built like tank armor." Reid grins, enjoying himself way too much. "Face it. You're huge now. Enormous. An absolute unit. You need a place to maintain your beefcake status, and since you won't give up your precious workshop?—"
