Page 208 of What We Brave
But what if it does? How many hits can Blake take before he stops bouncing back?
After a minute, she pulls back. Wipes her eyes. Looks at both of us.
"I need a nap," she says. "I'm — God, I'm so tired."
"Go," I tell her. "We'll clean up."
She kisses Blake. Soft, careful, like an apology she knows isn't enough. Then she comes to me, rises up on her toes, and presses her lips to mine.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For not letting us bury it."
"I'm pretty proud of myself honestly. I'm getting to be such a big boy."
She almost smiles. Almost.
Then she's gone, her footsteps quiet down the hall, and the bedroom door clicks shut.
Blake stands at the sink for a long moment, hands braced on the counter. Not moving. Just breathing.
So I stare at him, imagining he can feel my eyes boring through his back like laser beams. Finally, he cracks.
"I'm fine, Reid."
"I know you're not, but okay."
He exhales. Pushes off the counter. "Workshop."
"Yeah. I figured."
Blake's shoulders drop the second he crosses the threshold of the workshop. I've seen it a hundred times — the way this spacerearranges him. Puts the pieces back in some order that makes sense after everything's been scrambled.
He doesn't turn on the overhead lights. Just the lamp at his bench, the one that throws warm light across whatever he's working on and leaves everything else in shadow. He picks up a hand plane, runs his thumb along the blade, sets it down again. Picks up a chisel. Sets that down too.
I sit on the workbench across from him. The one I always sit on. The wood is worn smooth from years of this — me showing up in his space, parking myself on a surface he'd rather I didn't, waiting for him to talk or not talk. Blake took care of me, yeah. But I'm starting to realize that I took care of him too.
"You didn't have to do that," he says finally. "In the kitchen."
"Yeah I did."
"I can handle?—"
"I know you can handle it. You can handle anything. That's not the point." I pick up a wood scrap, turn it over in my fingers. "The point is you shouldn't have to."
He's quiet. Runs his hand along the edge of the workbench.
"She didn't mean it," he says.
"No, she didn't."
"It's not—" He stops. Starts again. "She wants me. I know she wants me."
"But?"
His jaw works. "But for about thirty seconds today, I was the thing she was ashamed of. And I know that's not fair to her — I know it was reflex, I know she felt terrible about it?—"
"Blake. You're allowed to be hurt even if she didn't mean it."
He goes quiet again. Picks up the hand plane. This time he actually uses it — one slow pass along a scrap of wood. The curl of shaving peels away, pale and thin. He does it again. And again.
