Page 182 of What We Brave
Laine tips her head up to look at me.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Hi."
"I'm sorry I ran this morning."
"You don't have to apologize for needing space."
"I know. But I'm sorry you worried."
Worried.There's that word again. Doing a lot of heavy lifting.
"I worry," I tell her. "That's what I do. Don't apologize for it."
"What if I apologize for not texting sooner?"
"Accepted."
She smiles. Tucks herself back against my shoulder.
We sit like that for a while. Quiet. The house settling around us. I should finish the laundry but I don't want to move. Don't want to break whatever this is — this fragile, warm thing that feels like it could shatter if I breathe wrong.
It won't. She's here. She said home.
Don't fuck this up.
Laine reaches for the last pile — the finished stack I set aside earlier. She's tidying. Organizing. Doing the thing she does when her hands need to catch up to her brain.
She stops.
Pulls her purple sweater from the top of the pile. Holds it up. Looks at it.
Then looks at me.
"This was in your load?"
"Must've gotten mixed in." I keep my voice flat. Reach for a shirt that doesn't need folding.
"Blake."
"What?"
"This was in my bag. In the guest room. Zipped up."
Shit.
"Huh." I fold the shirt. Precise creases. Very focused on the creases. "Weird."
"You put my sweater in your laundry."
"It needed washing."
"It was clean."
I've got nothing. I'm sitting here with a perfectly folded shirt in my hands and no defense and she's looking at me with those eyes — not angry, not confused, something worse. Something soft and knowing and devastating.
"You wanted something of mine in there," she says. Not a question.
