Page 112 of What We Brave
"Goodnight, Blake."
I just stand there. Staring at him. My brain has fully left the building. His lips quirk, and then he's gently prying my keys from my hand and unlocking the door himself. And then I'm inside, back pressed against the closed door.
"Lock it, Laine."
That voice. I flick the lock, and finally, his footsteps recede down the hallway. My legs feel like jello. My heart's pounding. My hands are actually shaking.
I'm in so much trouble.
I can't wait.
23
REID
Iwipe the island down for the fourth time.
It was clean the first time. Sterile the second. Now I'm pretty sure I'm sanding through the sealant on pure neurosis alone.
I toss the rag into the sink and grip the edge of the counter, locking my elbows, leaning my full weight into it like the granite's going to tell me something useful. The house is quiet. Not good quiet. Not cozy-fire-crackling quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before a monitor starts screaming a flatline alarm and you're already reaching for the crash cart.
The clock on the microwave reads 10:14 PM.
Okay. Math. I can do math. If they finished dinner at nine, and Blake drove the speed limit — which he sure as fuck will — they should've been back at Laine's apartment by nine-fifteen. Drop-off takes five minutes. Ten if they were talking. Fifteen if —
I shove off the counter and pace to the living room window.
Don't do it.
My truck keys are sitting on the entry table. Catching the porch light like a little brass invitation. A dare. It would be so easy. Just a quick loop. One pass by her complex. See if her lights are on. Make sure Blake's truck isn't still parked there. Just to make sure she's safe.That's all. That's — totally reasonable, right? People check on people. It's a human instinct. Practically biological.
No.
I turn my back on the window. My fingers are still twitching at my sides, so I shove my hands into my pockets.
I am not that guy anymore. I can't be. That was the guy who lost her. The guy white-knuckling his way through every day on three hours of sleep and a prayer, on the fucking verge of a complete breakdown and too stubborn to see it.
I promised her space. I promised her we could do this — this crazy, impossible thing — the right way.
And the right way means staying in this damn house and trusting my best friend with the woman I love.
With the woman he loves too.
Headlights sweep across the wall.
My head snaps up. Diesel engine rumble, then the heavy thud of a truck door.
I force my feet to stay planted. Don't rush to the door. I walk back to the kitchen, grab a water bottle from the fridge, crack the seal, take a drink. Casual. Relaxed. Definitely haven't been wearing a trench into the floorboards for the last three hours.
The front door opens.
Blake walks in.
I scan him before I even realize I'm doing it. Gait. Posture. Facial tension. Can't turn the medic off, never could, probably never will.
He looks different.
For months — ever since the workshop, ever since Afghanistan — Blake's been hauling an invisible ruck everywhere he goes. Usually walks in staring at the floor, shoulders hunched forward, bracing for whatever's coming next.
