Page 131 of What We Brave
I grip the steering wheel as the Honda pulls hard, that awfulthump-thump-thumptelling me exactly what happened before I even get to the shoulder. The tire's flat. Completely, totally flat.
I slam my palm against the wheel. "Are youkiddingme?"
Forty-eight hours. Reid, Blake and I finally —finally— have forty-eight hours where none of us is working, sleeping, or recovering from a double shift.
We've been dating for two months. Two months of stolen moments, shared dinners, and a terrifying amount of domestic stability. It's good. It's so incredibly, wonderfully good.
I am also losing my absolute mind.
I haven't slept with either of them. Not because I don't want to—my body is currently operating on a permanent, low-level vibration of need—but because taking that final step with one of them while the other isn't around feels… wrong. Unbalanced. Like crossing a boundary we haven't figured out how to negotiate yet. It feels like a line we all need to cross together, or at least be on the exact same page about.
Which is why this weekend is crucial. I've been counting down for a week. I shaved my legs this morning. I packed the expensive, matching underwear. I have wine in the backseat and a playlist queued up and now I'm sitting on the side of the road in the rain with a flat tire.
I drop my forehead against the steering wheel and groan. I was so excited to own a car for the first time in my life. But it kind of sucks.
Okay. Think. I know how to change a tire. Dad taught me when I was sixteen, somewhere in Thailand, on the side of a road with a truck full of building supplies. I've done it before. I can do it again.
I pop the trunk and get out. The cold hits immediately — sweater and jeans, not exactly roadside mechanic attire. The spare is buried under everything. I haul it all out, find the tire iron, and then stare at the undercarriage trying to remember where the jack point is.
Twenty minutes later, my fingers are numb, I've scraped my knuckles on something metal, and the diagrams in the manual look nothing like what I'm seeing under the frame.
Blake would know. Blake would have this done in five minutes without breaking a sweat.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over his contact. I don't want to be the kind of woman who calls a man every time something goes wrong. Blake told me at the flea market he'd do anything for me, and I believe him, which is exactly why I don't want to abuse it.
But my fingers are going numb. A semi blows past and rocks my entire car. And I really, really want to get there before midnight.
I hit call.
Blake picks up on the second ring. "Laine?"
"Hi. So. Don't panic."
"What happened?" His voice sharpens immediately. "Where are you?"
"I'm fine. Totally fine. I just — my tire blew out. I'm pulled over on the shoulder of Beltline, just past the River Road exit. There's a big green sign that says?—"
"I know where you are. Stay in the car."
"Blake, I'm okay, I just need help with the jack?—"
"Laine." His tone doesn't leave room for argument. "Stay. In. The car. Lock the doors and don't open them for anyone. I'll be there in ten."
He hangs up.
I stare at my phone. My heart's beating faster than it should be, and it's not just from the cold.
I climb back into the Honda, crank the heat, and shove my hands in front of the vents. The warmth stings my scraped knuckles. I'm annoyed at myself for needing rescue, annoyed at my car for betraying me, annoyed at the universe for sabotaging my weekend.
But also — and I'm not proud of this — there's a tiny, traitorous part of me that liked the way Blake's voice went sharp. The immediate command. TheI'll be there.
Headlights appear in my rearview mirror. Blake's truck pulls up behind me, hazards flashing. He's out of the cab before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, crossing to my window in three long strides.
"You okay?" He's scanning me like he's checking for injuries. Head to hands to torso. Professional. Thorough. "You hurt?"
"I'm fine. Just cold and frustrated."
"Let me see your hands."
