Page 269 of What We Brave
Our friend.
I watch his jaw clench. Just once. A micro-movement that nobody else would catch — not my mom, not my dad, not Carlos hauling bags out of the back. But I see it. And Reid sees it. And the three seconds of perfect are gone.
"Blake." My mom steps forward, and her smile is there but it's different — a degree cooler, a shade more careful. She shakes his hand instead of hugging him. "It's so nice to meet you. Laine mentioned you'd be joining."
Mentioned.Nottold us all about you.Notwe've heard so much.Mentioned.
Because what my mom heard, during one tearful phone call seven months ago, was that someone named Blake had hurt her daughter. That he'd been unkind. That he was tangled up in the worst months of my life. She doesn't know the details. She doesn't need them. Mary Mitchell files information and holds it quietly and watches.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Blake says. Polite. Steady.
My dad shakes his hand too. Firm and brief. "Welcome. Glad you could make it."
Blake nods. That's it. No charm offensive. No performance. Just Blake, standing in the dirt in a Guatemalan village, being exactly who he is — which right now is a man trying very hard not to feel like an outsider in a place where I've made him one.
This is my fault. I did this to him.
"Come on," Mom says, hooking her arm through mine. "Let me show you everything. Carlos, can you bring the bags to the house? David, show the boys the path?—"
And just like that, we're moving. Mom pulls me toward the main building, talking a mile a minute — the garden, the women's group, the new water filtration system someone donated. Her voice is bright and fast and full of things she's been saving to tell me in person.
I listen. I ask questions. I hug the women who come out to greetme, women I've never met but who know my face from the photos Mom tapes everywhere. A little girl tugs on my shirt and shows me a gap-toothed smile, and I crouch down and tell her she's beautiful in broken Kaqchikel that makes everyone laugh.
Behind me, Reid is doing what Reid does. He's found the kids. Within ten minutes he's got four of them hanging off him, teaching them some clapping game he definitely made up on the spot. One boy climbs on his back. Reid doesn't miss a beat.
He's so good at this.Making people feel safe. Making himself belong.
Or at least acting like he does.
Blake walks with my dad. A few paces back. Quiet. My dad isn't a talker either, so they move through the village in what looks like comfortable silence but probably isn't — not for Blake. Not today.
I keep losing the thread of what my mom is saying because I'm tracking Blake over her shoulder. Watching him scan the buildings, the construction materials stacked under tarps, the wheelbarrows and shovels leaned against walls.
Then we get to the community center.
It's bigger than I expected — concrete block walls, a corrugated metal roof that's half old and half new. Scaffolding along the east side where the roof repair is happening. Inside, folding chairs, a long table, hand-painted signs in Kaqchikel and Spanish.
"The east section's been giving us trouble," Dad says, and I realize he's talking to Blake. "Carlos thinks water damage. I think it's deeper than that."
Blake's already moved away from the group. He's standing at the base of the east wall, looking up at the support beams where they meet the roofline. His hand comes up and presses against the wood. Pushes. His fingers find a soft spot and dig in slightly.
"It's rot," he says. "You've got moisture getting trapped between the beam and the block. No ventilation." He steps back, eyes tracing the roofline. "How long's this section been up?"
"Six years. Maybe seven."
"The flashing's wrong. Water's been running down behind the metal and pooling on the top plate. It's been rotting from the inside."
Dad looks at him, bushy white eyebrows raised. "You know your stuff."
"I help restore old buildings." Blake's voice is different now. Not louder. Not warmer, exactly. Butpresentin a way he hasn't been all day. "Back home. Historical work. Wood rot's the number one thing I deal with."
"We could use you." Dad turns to Reid and Laine. "Your friend knows more about this in thirty seconds than Carlos and I have figured out in three months."
Your friend.
There it is again. And Blake's jaw does that thing again — the clench, the release — but this time he turns away before I can read the rest of his face. He walks along the wall, running his hand over the wood, and I watch him disappear into the work the way he always does.
"He's incredible," Reid says. Too bright. Too fast. "You should see his workshop back home. He built Laine's desk. Custom. From scratch."
