Page 181 of What We Brave
Laine's cheeks flush pink. "Yeah."
"Was it too much?"
She considers this. Head tilted.
"No. Not too much." She picks the jeans back up. Folds them slowly. "Just new. Really new."
"Good new or bad new?"
"Good new." She pauses. "Scary new. Both."
I reach for her hand. Can't help it. I always want to touch her — hold her, pull her close, put myself between her and whatever's making her afraid. Even when the thing she's afraid of might be me.
Her fingers are cold. I wrap mine around them.
"Jamila told me something," Laine says. "About showing up. About how that's the whole thing — just being there. Even when it's hard."
"Smart woman."
"She is." Laine looks down at our hands. "So I'm here. I'm going to keep being here. I might freak out and run to diners occasionally to eat pancakes and have emotional breakdowns with my friends. But I'm not going anywhere."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She squeezes my hand. "I mean it, Blake."
I bring her hand to my mouth. Press my lips against her knuckles. Close my eyes.
She came back. She said home. She's here.
The voice in my head — the one that catalogs disasters, that insists I'll destroy everything I touch — it doesn't shut up. It never shuts up completely. But right now, with her hand against my mouth and Reid pretending to sleep in the chair and a pile of warm laundry between us, it's quieter than it's been in a long time.
Don't fuck this up, Moore.
Not a spiral. More like a prayer.
Reid shifts in his chair. "So what did you and Jamila actually talk about? Besides how great we are?"
Laine laughs. "Bold assumption."
"I'm a bold guy. It's part of my charm."
"She told me I was overthinking things. That it's okay to be scared as long as I'm scared for the right reasons."
"What are the right reasons?" I ask.
"Being afraid of messing up something good." She leans into my shoulder. Just slightly. Testing the weight. I hold still so she knows it's solid. That I'm solid. "Being afraid of not knowing how to do this. Being afraid of hurting one of you."
"And the wrong reasons?"
"Worrying about what people think. Whether it's normal. Whether my parents—" She stops. Takes a breath. "We can talk about that one later."
The parents thing. Right. Missionaries. I file it away. Another conversation for another day when she's ready.
"Sounds like Jamila earned her pancakes," Reid says.
"She really did." Laine settles more firmly against my shoulder, letting me take more of her weight.
Reid grabs the mismatched socks from the table and leaves the room muttering.
