Page 180 of What We Brave
"That's very domestic of you."
"Yeah, well." I reach for a shirt that I already folded, then do it again. "Domestic seems to be my thing lately."
She moves toward the couch. Not fast. Deliberate.
Come on. Sit down. Please just?—
She sits. Not quite touching me but close enough that I can smell her. Vanilla and something floral. Shampoo from my shower. Our shower. The one where I washed her hair and she leaned back against my chest and I thoughtI could do this every day for the rest of my life.
Laine picks up one of Reid's t-shirts from the pile. Smooths out a wrinkle with her thumb. The gesture is small. Careful. Like she's giving her hands something to do while her brain catches up.
"You don't have to fold his stuff," she says.
"I don't mind."
She nods. Picks up another shirt. Starts folding.
We work in silence for a minute. Her hands are smaller than mine, more deliberate with the creases. She folds Reid's work shirts the way he likes them — sleeves tucked just so.
She knows how he likes them. Reid doesn’t give a shit about wrinkles, except for his work clothes.
I stop folding. Just stand there holding one of his undershirts like an idiot. Because she's here, in this house, folding his laundry like it's the most natural thing in the world. And it is. For her. She just stepped into the gap I've been white-knuckling my way around for months and filled it like she was always supposed to be standing there.
"I can help," she says. "With all of it. If you'll let me."
She's not talking about laundry.
"Yeah." My voice comes out thick. Stupid. I clear my throat. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Reid settles into his chair across from us. Leans back. Eyes half-closed like he's resting, but I can tell he's listening. He's always listening.
"I was a little freaked out this morning," Laine says after a while. Quietly. Like she's testing the words.
There it is.
My hands keep folding. Automatic. But my chest tightens and the voice in my head is already?—
Here it comes. The part where she says it was too much. Too fast. Too?—
"I lied a little bit," she continues. "About having plans with Jamila. I didn't. I just needed to talk to someone who wasn't you or Reid."
"That's okay." I mean it. Even though part of me wanted to be the person she talked to. Even though part of me is jealous of her friend. "You should have people."
"I was scared." She sets down a half-folded pair of jeans. Looks at me directly and I have to force myself not to look away because her eyes are so goddamn honest it hurts. "Not of you. Not of this. I was scared I was going to mess it up. That I already had."
"You didn't."
"You looked pretty worried when I left."
Worried. Yeah. That's one word for standing at a window for fifteen minutes calculating the odds that you'd never come back.
"I was—"Terrified. Gutted. Convinced you'd figured out I'm poison and decided to save yourself."—concerned."
"Concerned," she repeats. A small smile. She heard everything I didn't say.
Reid opens his eyes. "We were both a little freaked out," he admits. "Thought maybe we'd pushed too hard. Last night."
"The couch," I say quietly. Because someone has to name it.
