Page 113 of What We Brave
Tonight, his head is up. He looks tired, yeah, but the tight lines around his eyes have smoothed out. Like he finally set the weight down and walked away from it.
He sees me standing by the fridge. Doesn't flinch.
"You're up," he says, tossing his keys into the bowl.
"Yeah. Just, um, needed water." I wave the bottle in the air like some kind of exhibit A. Very convincing, Reid. Really nailed that one.
Blake just gives me the look. The you're full of shit look. "How many times did you clean the kitchen?"
I don't know why I even tried. "Three," I admit.
Blake walks to the fridge. I step aside, let him in. He grabs a beer, twists the cap off, leans back against the counter opposite me. Takes a long pull, his throat working. Lowers the bottle and looks me dead in the eye.
"Yeah," he says, answering the question I haven't asked yet. "We're good."
I nod. Keep my face neutral. My pulse is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. "And her?"
Blake's mouth quirks at the corner. Small. Genuine. "She's good, Reid. She ate. She laughed." He pauses, studying me, reading every single thing I'm trying to keep off my face. "She looked happy."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Happy.
My fingers loosen around the water bottle. I didn't even realize I'd been strangling it.
"Good," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "That's... good."
Blake pushes off the counter. He walks past me toward the hallway, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he goes. Squeezes once. Hard. No words. Doesn't need them. That's the truce, signed and sealed in one grip.
"Maybe you should call her," he says quietly. "Check in on her."
Then he's gone. Door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the kitchen. The silence fills in like water.
Maybe you should call.
My pulse hammers up into my throat. The urge to just go — to get in the car and drive to her — hits me so fast it's almost physical, like a shove between the shoulder blades. I want to see it. Whatever Blake saw on her face, the happiness or the relief or whatever it was, I want to see it for myself. I want to put my hands on her and confirm she's real, she's still here, we haven't scared her off, that this whole fragile, terrifying thing between us isn't about to blow apart.
My eyes land on the keys again.
Stop.
If I show up uninvited, I'm just proving I haven't changed. I'm the guy who can't sit still, who doesn't trust her to be okay without me hovering, who needs to control the scene. That guy. Again. Still.
But maybe he's right. Maybe a call would be okay.
I grab my phone off the counter before my brain catches up to my hand.
Thumb hovers over her name. A call. Just a call. Except — no. A call feels too small. I need to see her face. I need to see that she's okay, that Blake didn't break something, that I didn't break something by staying away.
I hit the video icon.
Three rings. Four. My hand tightens around the phone, knuckles going pale against the case —
The screen lights up.
Laine's face fills the frame, soft and warm in the glow of her bedside lamp. She's already in bed, blankets pulled up to her chin, hair fanned across her pillow. Her eyes are half-lidded, that drowsy look she gets when she's fighting sleep.
