Page 109 of What We Brave
I wait. Don't push. My instinct is always to ask the question, to be straightforward, but I'm learning that Blake needs time.
I can give him that. Because when he does speak, it's always worth hearing.
"He got sick too." Blake's jaw tightens. "Parkinson's, then dementia."
Oh no. I can already see where this is going.
"So I went back to watching. Monitoring his medication, his balance, his memory. Making sure he didn't wander off or leave the stove on."
Another pause. Longer this time. He meets my eyes like he's checking whether I can take it.
"I was seventeen when he died."
Seventeen.Losing everyone who ever protected you by seventeen. My throat tightens, and before I can stop myself, tears blur my vision.
"Hey." Blake's voice goes soft. He reaches across the table, thumb brushing under my eye. "Don't cry for me, Laine."
"I'm not crying for you." The words come out thick, half-swallowed. "I'm crying for that little boy who had to grow up so fast. For the teenager who lost his grandfather right when he needed him most."
Blake's hand stills against my cheek. Something shifts in his expression — surprise, maybe. Like he's never considered his own story from the outside before.
"Blake." I cover his hand with mine, holding it against my face. "That's so much loss for one person to carry."
He doesn't pull away. Just watches me with those dark eyes. "It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't make it hurt less."
"No," he says quietly. "It doesn't."
"How did you handle it?" I ask softly. "After your grandfather."
"Jared and Reid." His voice shifts, warming. "I made friends with Jared when I moved here, and spent a lot of time at their house. Their family basically adopted me for my last year of high school. Jared's dad taught me how to throw a football. His mom made sure I ate three meals a day." A real smile this time, small but genuine. "When we enlisted, whatever base we were on became home."
"And then you lost Jared too."
The smile vanishes. "Yeah."
We sit in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable — just heavy with everything unspoken.
No wonder he and Reid are so connected. They've been each other's anchor through everything. And now I'm part of that somehow.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "I keep asking you about painful things."
"Don't be. It's..." He looks at me, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "It's good, actually. Talking about it. With you. That'sthe point of this, right? Letting you see me." The vulnerability flickers into something almost sheepish. "I wish I had lighter stuff to share with you, but my life hasn't had a lot of light in it."
I want to be that for him. The lighter thing. The reason his shoulders drop and his jaw unclenches and that almost-smile stops being almost.
Our food arrives. The conversation drifts somewhere easier — pranks he and Jared used to pull on Reid, a client who insisted her 1920s fireplace needed to be "more Victorian." I tell him about crawling under Jamila's coffee table, and he laughs. Not a polite exhale. A real laugh, warm and caught off guard, like I surprised it out of him.
That sound. I want to hear that sound every day.
"Reid mentioned your dad," he says over dessert — chocolate cake we're splitting. "The heart attack scare. How's he doing?"
"Better. It wasn't actually his heart, just a combination of exhaustion and dehydration. But it scared me." I push chocolate around my plate. "They're not young anymore. They keep taking on these physically demanding projects like they're still in their thirties."
"Do you have plans to see them soon?"
I shake my head. "Not really. I've been so focused on everything here. But normally I visit them every few months between contracts." I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. "Gosh, I just realized this is the longest I've gone without seeing them since I started nursing."
