Page 19 of What We Brave
"That's what I'm good at."
"Says who?" His voice cuts through my bullshit. "Who decided you were born to be everyone's shield? When did you start thinking you had to sacrifice yourself for everyone else?"
The question hits something deep. A fault line I've spent decades trying to plaster over.
"My mom needed me." The words come out rough, dragged from somewhere I don't visit. "Dad left when I was six. She worked doubles at the diner, came home smelling like grease and exhaustion. Someone had to make sure the bills got paid, the fridge wasn't empty, that she actually ate something before she passed out."
I can still see her, slumped at the kitchen table at midnight, too tired to make it to her bedroom. I'd drape a blanket over her shoulders. Make sure the doors were locked. Set her alarm so she wouldn't be late for the morning shift.
"Then Gramps." My throat tightens. "When Mom got sick and passed and I ended up in Oregon, he was already frail. Hands shaking so bad he could barely hold a chisel anymore. But he taught me everything." I look down at my own hands, calloused and scarred. "How to read the grain. How to feel when the wood wanted to bend versus break. How to bring something back from the dead."
Gramps would be furious right now. He'd look at this mess I've made—Reid alone, Laine hurt, me hiding in a war zone—and he'd shake his head with that disappointed silence that cut deeper than any shouting.
You don't destroy what you love, boy. You tend it.
"He'd be ashamed of me," I say quietly. "All that time teaching me to restore things, and I just... demolished everything that mattered."
Hatch doesn't let the silence sit. "So you took care of your mom. Took care of your grandfather. Took care of Reid after Jared died. When's the last time someone took care of you?"
"That's not?—"
"Answer the question."
I can't.
"Why is Reid's happiness more important than yours?" Hatch presses.
"Because he'sgood." The answer comes fast, automatic. "He's the one who should have a life. A family. He deserves?—"
"And you don't?"
"I don't know how to do that." My voice cracks again. "I don't know how to just... be happy. I know how to fix things. I know how to protect people. But when I try to have something for myself, I destroy it."
Hatch watches me, eyes narrowing. "You ever think maybe you keep people at arm's length because you're terrified they'll leave anyway? So you make yourself indispensable instead. Can't abandon the guy holding everything together, right?"
The words land like a blade between my ribs.
"If I was just..." I stop. Start again. "If I could just beenough?—"
"Then they wouldn't leave," Hatch finishes. "That's what you believe, isn't it? That if you're useful enough, essential enough, people have to stay."
I don't answer. Can't answer.
"But that's not love, Blake. That's a fucking transaction, and it's fucking exhausting." He taps the cigarette pack once more. "You're so busy being necessary that you never let anyone actuallyknowyou. And then you wonder why you feel alone."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's wrong. But the silence stretches, and I've got nothing.
"Check in," Hatch says finally. "Turn on your phone. See if your grand plan is actually working. See if Reid's thriving without you like you convinced yourself he would."
"And if he's not?"
"Then maybe you consider your instincts about what everyone needs are dead fucking wrong."
He turns to leave.
"Hatch," I call out.
He stops, hand on the doorframe.
