Page 21 of What We Brave
I never expected her to message me. Not in a million fucking years.
I shouldn't read it. She hates me. She has every right to hate me. I was cruel to her. I terrified her. I wanted her to hate me so she would be safe from me. Can I take more of her hatred?
I should turn the phone off and throw it into the latrine. I should go back to being a rifle.
But I’m not a rifle. I’m the idiot who loves them both.
I open the message. It was sent two days ago.
Laine
Blake, it's Laine. Reid doesn't know I'm texting you.
I saw Reid today. He looks bad. Really bad. Tony says he's barely eating, working doubles just to avoid going home. He's not okay, Blake. He's falling apart and I don't know how to help him.
I know you're dealing with your own stuff. I know things ended badly between all of us. But he needs his brother. He needs to know you're okay. He needs SOMETHING.
You told me you stayed to hold him together. Well, you're gone, and he's in pieces. Come fix this.
Please.
This is all fucking wrong. I stare at the wall. The concrete feels like it's closing in. The air in the room is suddenly too thin to breathe. Thesafety of the war zone, the comfort of the orders, the numbness of the routine—it all shatters.
I’m not a weapon. I’m a man who left his brother bleeding.
And there is only one way to fix it. Not by dying here. But by going back there and facing the wreckage.
I stand up. I don't think. I don't plan. I just move.
I shove the phone into my pocket. I grab my duffel bag and throw the few things I own into it. The uniform. The boots. The picture of the three of us—Me, Reid, Jared—that I keep tucked in my Grandpa's Bible.
I walk out of the room, down the hall, boots slamming against the floor. I pound my fist on Hatch's door.
"Hatch!" I yell. "Wake up."
The door opens instantly. Hatch stands there fully dressed, looking like he expected me. Like he was waiting for the knock.
"I need a flight," I say. My voice is rough, scraping my throat. "Get me on the bird to Ramstein. Tonight. I don't care what it costs. I don't care if I have to sit in the cargo hold."
Hatch studies my face. He sees the frantic energy in my eyes. He sees the phone sticking out of my pocket. He doesn't smile, but his shoulders drop an inch.
He nods, once. A sharp, decisive movement.
"About fucking time, Moore," he says, stepping back to let me in. "You're going home."
5
REID
Ipull into the driveway on autopilot, my hands vibrating against the steering wheel. That’s not nerves; that’s the unholy amount of gas station espresso I consumed at 3:00 AM. My eyes feel like they’re filled with sand, and my lower back is locked in a spasm that I’m going to name "Tony" because it’s annoying, persistent, and won’t shut the hell up.
Another double shift. That’s the third this week. The flu has decimated the staff, dropping medics like flies, so I’m picking up the slack. The overtime pay is obscene. I could probably buy a boat. I don’t want a boat. I want a nap. I want a new spine.
But if I stop moving, I have to think. And if I come home to a normal schedule, I have to sit in this house while the silence eats me alive.
So, I work. I drive the rig. I save citizens. I pretend I’m a high-functioning member of society and not a guy who is one bad Spotify playlist away from a total structural collapse.
The headlights sweep across the driveway. The porch light is burnt out, railing bowing out. The whole place looks like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the guy who actually knows how to maintain it to come back.
