Page 18 of What We Brave
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Hatch asks. "That you're doing this for him?"
"Yes. He's free of me. He can breathe."
Hatch sighs. It’s a short, sharp exhale through his nose. He looks frustrated. "I went by the station last week. Spoke to the Chief. I checked on Reid, just like you asked me to."
My heart hammers against my ribs. A sudden, violent kick. The name is a physical blow.Reid.
I shouldn't ask. I don't have the right to ask. I forfeited that right the moment I walked out the door. But the hunger for news is a physical pain, sharp and twisting in my gut.
"And?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
"Reid's working."
"See? He's fine."
"He's working doubles as often as he can, Blake." Hatch holds my gaze, refusing to let me look away. "The Chief says he’s practically living at the station. He sleeps in the bunk room. He picks up every overtime slot, every holiday, every graveyard shift. He’s running on caffeine and anger."
I stare at the fluorescent light humming overhead, trying to blinkaway the image of Reid, exhausted, gray-faced, sitting in the back of an ambulance staring at nothing.
"He's doing exactly what you're doing," Hatch says softly. "He won't admit it, but he's burying himself in work because he doesn't know how to exist in the quiet. He goes home to that big house you two bought, and it’s empty. So he stops going home."
I look down at my hands. They're stained with gun oil, the smell sharp and metallic. "He's supposed to be with Laine. They're supposed to be taking care of each other."
"He's alone," Hatch snaps. The anger radiates off him now, hot and controlled. "You didn't fix anything by leaving. You didn't 'restore' the situation. You just gutted the building and walked away from the wreckage."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I'd told myself Reid kicking me out was the right thing—that without me poisoning everything, he'd go back to Laine. They'd work it out. He'd be happy again, safe in that perfect little life I'd destroyed. I'd pictured them together, maybe talking it through over coffee in their kitchen, Reid's hands steady again instead of shaking with rage.
But that's not what happened. Instead of fixing the problem, I tore the fucking walls out of it.
"I can't go back." My voice cracks. Just a fracture, but I hear it. "I can't look him in the eye. Not after what I did. If I stay away, there's a chance he can fix it with her. She loves him. She'll be there for him. He's supposed to be there for her."
His eyes narrow, and that tapping starts up again. "So that's it? You're just going to stay here in the sand until your luck runs out? Let Jared’s brother rot while you play soldier?"
This motherfucker. "Don't bring Jared into this."
"I'll bring him into it. Because if he were here, he'd kick your ass." Hatch stands up. He looms over me, a mountain of muscle and judgment. "You think you're serving some great penance. You think if you suffer enough, if you bleed enough, it balances the scales. But that’s not how it works, Moore. You're treating yourself like a tool, not a fucking human being."
"Iama tool," I whisper. "That's all I've ever been good at. Point meat the problem. Let me fix it. Let me break it. Just don't ask me to be... human. I suck at being human."
"That's the coward's answer."
My head snaps up. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. It’s easier to be a weapon than a man. Weapons don't have to say sorry. Weapons don't have to sit in a room with their best friend and say, 'I messed up, and I don't know how to fix it.' Weapons don't have to do the hard work of rebuilding trust."
Hatch leans down, planting his hands on the table. His biceps flex, thick as cables. "You're a restorer, aren't you? That’s your whole identity. You take broken, rotted, useless things and you make them whole again. You sand down the rough edges. You reinforce the structure."
"Some things are too damaged to save," I say. "Some things you have to condemn."
"Is that for you to decide?" Hatch challenges. "Did you ask Reid if he wanted to condemn the friendship? Or did you just decide for him because you were too scared to do the hard work?"
I don't have an answer. He's got me trapped. I've spent my whole life saving stuff that other people tossed out. But when it came to the most important thing in my life, I didn't even try to fix it. I just took a sledgehammer to it.
"You deserve a life, Blake," Hatch says, straightening up. "And you don't earn forgiveness by bleeding out in a ditch in Kandahar. You earn it by showing up. By doing the work."
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because deep down, I know he's right about the bleeding out part. I've been hoping for it. Clean exit. No mess left behind.
"You think you don't deserve a future," Hatch continues, crossing his arms. "I've watched you do this dance for years, Moore. You disappear into being the protector. Someone needs saving, and boom—there goes Blake. Like you don't exist except to fix everyone else's problems."
