Page 204 of What We Brave
I look at Laine's other hand. Pressed against her hip. Fingers curled tight.
And then I see Joyce. Flower stall. Heading our way.
Oh.
Oh, Laine. Fuck. You didn't.
"Laine!" Joyce waves with a fistful of peonies, navigating the crowd. "I thought that was you!"
"Joyce! Hey!"
Laine's voice comes out high and bright and completely wrong. I know every version of this woman's voice — the sleepy one, the stubborn one, the one that goes low and soft in the dark. This isn't any of them. This is a stranger's voice coming out of her mouth, and it makes my chest hurt.
She's still gripping my hand. I can feel her pulse hammering through her fingers.
She dropped Blake and kept me. She saw someone she loves and her reflex was to keep me and drop him.
I don't know what to do with that. I don't know where to put it. Because right now Blake is standing six inches further from us than he was ten seconds ago, and his face is doing that thing — that perfectly calm, perfectly controlled, perfectlyemptything that means he's taking a hit and packing it away somewhere I can't reach.
I've watched him do that for years. On deployment. After Jared. In the dark months when I was coming out of the dark and he was being the robotic caregiver. Someone who has no feelings of his own. I know what it looks like when Blake Moore decides something isn't worth fighting about because he isn't worth fighting for.
Don't. Don't do that. Don't put this in that box.
But I can't say anything. Joyce is right here, beaming at us, and Laine's performing, and Blake's already locked it down.
Joyce reaches us, slightly breathless, cheeks pink from the sun. Her eyes sweep the group — me beside Laine, Blake slightly behind, our bags of produce and flowers and hot sauce.
"Well, look at this crew." She's smiling, warm and real. "What a beautiful morning to be out."
"Joyce, you remember Reid."
Okay. That's weird. Even Joyce has to feel it. I've known her way longer than Laine has. She knows that.
But Joyce just rolls with it. "Of course." She squeezes my arm. "How are you, honey? Still saving lives?"
"Every day. Sometimes twice before lunch." The words come outeasy because easy is what I do. But my head is still six inches to my right, where Blake is standing very still with his hands at his sides. "I like the blouse, Joyce."
"Oh, stop." She waves me off, pleased. Then turns to Blake.
Come on, Joyce. See him. Please see him.
I don't know why that matters so much right now. Maybe because Laine just made him invisible, and I need someone to undo it.
Joyce looks at Blake the way she probably looks at patients — thorough, unhurried, not missing the still set of his shoulders. Her smile softens a little. "And you're Blake."
"Yes, ma'am." He steps forward. Nothing in his voice gives him away. Not a crack, not a waver. He's locked it all down so tight you'd never know anything happened, and that's worse than if he'd flinched. "Good to meet you."
"Laine's told me about you." Joyce takes his hand and holds on. I watch her clock the calluses, the roughness, the wood stain that never fully scrubs out. "She says you restore things. Old houses, woodwork."
"Yes, ma'am. Historical preservation, mostly."
"That must take incredible patience. Getting all the details right. Matching what was there before."
"It's the details that matter," Blake says. "Anyone can replace a piece. The skill is in making something look like it was never broken."
Something crosses Joyce's face. "I imagine that applies to more than just woodwork."
Blake goes quiet for a beat. "Sometimes."
