Page 26 of What We Brave
Reid snorts. "You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah. I know."
He moves past me into the kitchen, flipping on lights. The brightness makes us both wince. Under the light, Reid looks even worse than he did outside. The shadows under his eyes are purple-black. His cheekbones are sharper than they should be. His uniform hangs loose in places it didn't used to.
I did this.This is my fucking fault.
"You want something to drink?" Reid asks. He's opening cabinets, closing them. Not really looking for anything. Just moving because standing still is too hard.
"I'll make coffee."
The words come out automatically. How many times have I said them? Hundreds. Thousands. Every bad night, every early morning, every moment when neither of us knew what to say—I made coffee.
Reid stops moving. Looks at me.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Okay."
I find the coffee maker in its usual spot. The filters are where they've always been. But when I open the cabinet for the coffee, there's only an ancient bag of grounds that's been there since before I left.
"This is all you've got?"
"I've been drinking the shit at the station."
Of course he has. Because that would require buying groceries, and buying groceries would require coming home, and coming home would require facing the emptiness.
I measure out the stale grounds anyway. Fill the pot with water. Go through the motions I've gone through a thousand times before.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and for a moment we just stand there, listening to it.
"I missed this," Reid says. He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "Isn't that stupid? Three months of wondering if you were dead, and what I kept thinking about was your shitty coffee."
"It's not shitty."
"Blake. It's terrible. It's always been terrible."
"You've been drinking it for five years."
"Because you make it." His voice cracks slightly. "Because it meant you were here."
I don't know what to say to that. So I don't say anything. Just watch the coffee drip into the pot, dark and slow.
When it's done, I pour two mugs. Hand one to Reid.
He takes a sip and immediately makes a face. But he doesn't laugh. He just lowers the mug, staring into the dark liquid like he's trying to read the grounds.
The silence in the kitchen is suffocating. It’s not the comfortable quiet we used to have. It’s a canyon.
"I don't know how to do this," Reid says, his voice stripped of all its usual bounce. "I don't know how to just stand here drinking your shitty coffee like nothing happened."
"Nothing is like it was," I say. "I know that."
"I’m still so fucking mad at you." He looks up, his hazel eyes bloodshot and exhausted. "I'm glad you're alive. I'm glad you're here. But I look at you and I just see her driving away."
I grip the edge of the counter. I deserve that. Every bit of it. "I know."
I wrap my hands around my own mug. The warmth seeps into my fingers, and I realize how cold I am. How cold I've been for months, even in the middle of the fucking desert.
"Should we sit?" I ask.
