Page 203 of What We Brave
"No they're not."
"Blake. I can see actual tears."
"Allergies."
"You don'thaveallergies."
"I have them now. Seasonal."
"It's called pain. You're experiencing pain and calling it allergies."
Reid doubles over laughing, bracing his hands on his knees, and that sets off the small crowd around us. I start laughing too, a real, belly-deep laugh that chases away the cold knot of anxiety I've been carrying since the parking lot.
For a second we're just—people. At a market. Being stupid and happy and together. Nobody in this little circle is doing the math or the staring or the pursed-lip thing. We are just a girl and her two ridiculous men arguing about ghost peppers.
Reid ends up buying four bottles. Four. Blake gets his ghost pepper. I get the mango one because it actually is incredible and I'm not too proud to admit Reid was right.
We're walking away from the stall, loaded down with bags and hot sauce, and I reach for Blake's hand. I don't even think about it this time. His rough fingers slide between mine, deliberate and certain, while my other hand easily finds Reid's.
Then I see Joyce.
She's at the flower stall twenty feet ahead. Peonies in her hand, reading glasses perched on her nose, wearing that floral weekend blouse she wears when she's not in scrubs.
I told her.The thought hits me first.I sat in the breakroom and told her everything and she was fine. She accepted it.
But seeing her here, in the daylight, outside the safe, hypothetical bubble of a 3 AM confession—it's different. This is my permanent, professional life standing right in front of me. The real world.
She hasn't seen us yet.
And my hand drops Blake's.
I don't decide to do it. I don't think about it. One second his fingers are laced through mine and the next they're not, my hand snapping back to my side like a flinch. Like muscle memory. Like some deep-wired reflex that bypassed every brave thing I said in the parking lot.
I'm still holding Reid's.
No.
No no no no no.
She already knows. There is literally no reason to hide. But I didn't just let go—I'm still holding Reid's hand. I dropped Blake's and I'm still holding Reid's. Like he's the acceptable one.
Like Blake is a some dirty secret.
38
REID
Laine's hand clamps down on mine.
Not a squeeze. Aclamp— sudden and hard, the kind of grip that sends my head on a swivel before I even think about it. I'm scanning left, right, behind us — crowd, stalls, a kid with a balloon, nothing. No threat. Nobody too close.
I look to Blake.
That's automatic. Something spooks one of us, I find Blake. That's how it works. Has been since Afghanistan — you hear something wrong, you find your partner's eyes and figure out the play.
But Blake's not looking at me. He's not looking at anything. He's just... further away than he was three seconds ago. Half a step back, hand at his side, face already shutting down into that blank mask I haven't seen in weeks.
His hand is empty.
