Page 217 of What We Brave
I want to push. You have no idea how much I want to push.
"That's what Reid says. Boundaries. Communication. Apparently I'm learning."
The corner of her mouth twitches. "Apparently."
She squeezes my hand once and lets go. Heads back toward the house.
Reid watches her go, then looks at me.
"That was smooth, right?" he says. "The resource allocation thing? Very casual."
"Your hands were shaking."
"They were not."
"You shredded your water bottle label into confetti."
He looks down at the pile of paper bits around his feet. "That's... unrelated."
"Sure."
His grin is shaky around the edges.
I stand there with dirt on my hands and an ache in my chest that isn't quite pain and isn't quite hope. Somewhere in between.
Like everything else right now.
The sun's warm. The yard's a mess. The boxwoods look like they survived a bombing. And I'm standing in the middle of it, wanting things I can't say out loud yet.
Yet.
That's new. Usually the word isnever.Usually the sentence ends withyou don't get to have thatorshe'll figure out you're not worth it.
But today it'syet.
I'll takeyet.
40
LAINE
The plant is dead.
Not dying. Dead. Brown and crispy and curled in on itself like it gave up weeks ago and has just been sitting here waiting for someone to notice. The soil is pulled away from the edges of the pot, bone dry. I don't even remember what it was. Something with purple flowers. Something the girl at the nursery said was "practically unkillable."
Apparently not.
I carry it to the trash, pot and all, and wipe down the windowsill. That takes about four seconds because there's no dust. There's never dust here anymore. You need activity to make dust — movement, living, the general shedding of a life being lived.
Even my fig is gone. Settled in a corner of Blake's living room.
I do a lap. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom. Everything's where I left it. The bed's made tight, corners tucked. The dish rack is empty. The mail is stacked on the counter — two weeks' worth that I grabbed from the box on the way in. Electric bill. Junk. A coupon for a pizza place I've never been to.
The fridge has mustard, a bottle of white wine, and something in a takeout container that I'm not brave enough to open.
This is my apartment. I pay rent here. I have a lease with my name on it.
So why does it feel like I'm standing in someone else's house?
