Page 116 of What We Brave
Reid leans against my doorframe, arms crossed. Not angry. Not impatient. Just... there.
"You don't have to perform for me," he says quietly.
"I'm not performing. I'm just —" Except I am. That's exactly what I was trying to do. Get dressed, put on the smile, be the charming date Laine who didn't spend 20 minutes crying in the breakroom.
"Do you know that? Because you look like you're beating yourself up for not being ready to smile and be charming."
I glare at him. He's right, which makes it worse.
"I don't want to talk about it," I say.
"Okay."
"I mean it. I don't know what's wrong. I'm just... grumpy. And I don't want to ruin our night by being grumpy, but I also don't want to fake being fine."
Reid pushes off the doorframe. "Then don't fake it. Come on."
"Come on where? I'm not dressed."
"You're perfect."
I snort. "I'm in sweatpants."
"Perfect sweatpants." He's already unbuttoning his nice shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders. Underneath, he's wearing a plain whitet-shirt. He tosses the button-down onto my chair. "There. Now we match."
"Reid —"
"I know a place." He holds out his hand. "You don't have to talk. You don't have to be happy. You just have to come with me."
"Where?"
His mouth curves. "Somewhere you can hit things."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Trust me."
I shouldn't. I should shower and put on real clothes and be a functional human being who can handle a simple date night.
But Reid's standing there in his t-shirt, hand extended, looking at me like my mess doesn't scare him.
I take his hand.
"Fine," I say. "But if this is something weird, I'm leaving."
"Deal."
The batting cage smells like rubber and dust and someone else's sweat.
Reid found this place outside of town — one of those sad little recreational parks with a mini golf course that's seen better days and a row of pitching machines behind chain-link fencing. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz and flicker. The batting helmet he hands me is slightly too big and definitely hasn't been sanitized since the Clinton administration.
"This is your idea of a date?" I adjust the helmet. It slides forward over my eyebrows.
"This is my idea of therapy." He grins through the chain-link. "Now get in there."
I've never done this before. The bat is heavier than I expected, and I have no idea where to put my hands. The machine clunks and whirs like it's thinking about it, then —
The ball rockets past me before I've even started to swing.
