Page 259 of What We Brave
"You just got about a hundred times hotter," I say.
His eyes flick up to me. A flush creeps up his neck. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to. His mouth twitches and he looks back down at Claire and?—
God. Blake holding a baby is something I may never get over.
"So Laine," Tony says, leaning back with his coffee. "Is it true Reid set off the smoke alarm trying to make you breakfast in bed?"
"Which time?"
"There's been more than once?"
Reid groans. "In my defense, the second time was the toaster's fault."
"You put a Pop-Tart in a toaster oven set to broil," Blake says. Not looking up from Claire.
"The dial was confusing!"
"It saidbroil."
Tony shakes his head. "You two are like an old married couple."
The room goes quiet. Just for a beat. Not awkward — more like everyone clocking the phrase at the same time.Two. Old marriedcouple.
Tony catches it. His face does a quick reset. "I mean — all three of you. Sorry. I'm still — I don't always know how to?—"
"You're fine," I say. Because he is.
"It's a learning curve," Reid says. Easy. No edge. "We get it."
Kerry takes a pull of her beer. "It doesn't stop, by the way. The learning curve." She's not looking at anyone in particular. Just talking. "Mila and I have been together eight years. Married for three. People still trip over it. Not mean people. Just — people who haven't had to think about it before."
"The worst ones are the nice ones," Jamila says. "The ones who sayI totally support youand then spend the rest of dinner being weird about it."
"Or the questions," Kerry says. "'So who proposed?' 'Do your parents know?' And my personal favorite — 'Which one of you is the guy?'"
She gestures at herself — the flannel, the basketball shorts, the ponytail. "As if it's not obvious."
Jamila throws a napkin at her. "You arenotthe guy."
"Babe, I'm a little bit the guy."
"You cried at a dog food commercial last week."
"The dog wasold, Mila. He was bringing the ball back one last time. That was emotional terrorism."
Tony's losing it. Angie's got her face in her hands.
"The thing nobody tells you," Jamila says, catching her breath, "is that it's not the big stuff. The big stuff you're ready for. It's the small stuff. The waiter handing one of us the check — always Kerry, by the way. The nurse asking if we're friends. People slow blinking and needing time to process when I say 'my wife'."
"You'll get that times three, probably," Kerry says. Looking at me now. Steady. "People not knowing where to look. Which one of you to address. Forms that don't have a box for what you are." She shrugs. "You just figure out who's worth explaining yourself to and who isn't. That's the whole game."
The room's quiet. Not heavy. Just — listening.
"Extremely relatable," I say. My voice comes out thicker than I want it to.
Jamila catches it. Gives me a look.Don't you start.
I take a sip of wine. Regroup.
