Page 128 of What We Brave
"And heavy. Probably two hundred pounds."
"I know." She finally touches it, running her fingers along the carved edge. "It's perfect."
"It's a wreck."
"It's abeautifulwreck." She crouches down, examining the joinery like I taught her something in the last hour. "Is it solid? Like, could it be fixed?"
I kneel beside her. Check the corners. Test the drawer slides. Look for rot, for structural damage, for anything that would make this a lost cause.
"Yeah," I say. "It's solid underneath. The finish is destroyed, but that's cosmetic. This crack would need to be repaired — butterfly joints, probably. New hardware. Strip everything down, start fresh." I run my hand along the side panel. Feel the grain under my palm. "I could do it."
Laine looks at me. Something hopeful in her expression that makes my chest hurt.
"You'd do all that?"
The question hangs there. I think about my empty workbench. About the rocking chair sitting in the vendor's holding area. About all the projects I've taken on — for strangers, for clients, for people who don't care about the pieces beyond what they're worth.
This would be different. This would be for her.
"For you?" I say. "Yeah."
Her eyes go soft. "Blake —"
"I want to." And there it is again — that reflex to deflect, to make a joke, to find some way to avoid saying what I actually mean. Because saying it makes it real, and real things can be taken away.
Say it anyway, you coward.
"Let me refinish it for you. I'll fix the crack, strip the finish, bring it back to what it was. Better."
"That's... that's a lot of work."
"I don't care."
"It would take forever."
"I don't care about that either."
She's quiet for a moment. Studying my face the way she does — like she's running a diagnostic. Checking my vitals.
"Why?" she asks.
Because you deserve beautiful things. Because my hands need something to build instead of destroy. Because I spent months tearing you down and I will spend the rest of my life making things for you if you'll let me.
"Because I'd give you anything you asked for," I say. "Anything. And you didn't even have to ask."
Laine's breath catches.
"Blake."
"I mean it." My voice comes out rough. Raw. More exposed than I wanted. "Whatever you want. If it's in my power to give you, it's yours."
She doesn't say anything. Just steps into me, her hands finding my waist, then sliding up my back under my coat. Her palms are warm through my shirt. She presses her cheek against my chest.
I wrap my arms around her. Hold on. Not too tight. Loose enough that she can leave if she wants.
She doesn't leave.
Remember this.Whatever happens next — whatever I screw up, whatever falls apart — remember what it feels like to hold her in the middle of a flea market while she presses her face into your chest like you're something good.
