Page 283 of What We Brave
By afternoon, we've found our rhythm.
The community center's northeast corner is gutted — old rafters pulled down, rotten wood hauled out, new lumber measured and cut. We started at seven. David assigned tasks without looking at me — pointed at the lumber pile, pointed at the corner, said the joists needed to come out before they could re-sheet the roof. Then he walked to the other end of the building.
He's a missionary, a godly man, but I get the feeling that if he could have knocked me off the face of the planet, he would have.
That was six hours ago. Six hours of sun and sawdust and honest work, and my shoulders are burning and my hands are raw and it feelsgood.The kind of good I can never explain to people who don't work with their hands — how the ache settles something inside you. How measuring, cutting, fitting — the precision of it, the demand for accuracy — leaves no room for the noise.
Out here, things make sense.
Laine's on the scaffolding with me which I don't love, helping mehold a joist in position while I mark the connection point. Reid is below us, bracing the upright. He's been within arm's reach of me all day — not his usual bouncing, joke-a-minute self. Quieter. More watchful. If David's anywhere nearby, Reid drifts closer. Not aggressive. Not confrontational.
I see what he's doing. I'm not going to tell him to stop because having someone watching my six feels really fucking good.
"Quarter inch to the left," Laine says.
I check my mark. She's right. I adjust.
"You see that?" I nod at the grain pattern.
"The twist?"
"Yeah. It's going to want to bow when it takes weight."
"So shim the far end." She's already reaching for the wedges. "Dad taught me how to shim a joist before I could ride a bike."
I watch her set the wedge. Confident hands. Sure grip. She reads the wood the way some people read faces — where the grain runs, where it'll split, where it wants to go. Her father taught her that. Or maybe she was born with it.
Either way, it's fucking amazing. Watching her up here, in her element, sawdust in her hair and sunburn across her nose. She's not performing. Not trying to impress anyone. She just knows this stuff — how building works, how joints and weight and angles all fit together. She's magic.
And she chose me.
My jaw locks. I swallow past it and keep working.
Reid's voice floats up. "I want you both to know I understand exactly zero percent of this conversation."
"Just hold the post, Reid."
"I'm holding the post. I've been holding this post. My arms are tired."
"Why don't you try to hold it quieter?"
Reid's mouth drops open. "That's not even a thing, Blake."
Laine snorts. She taps the wedge with the mallet — crisp sound, tight joint. She knows it's good before I confirm it.
She looks up at me with a satisfied little smile. "Good?"
"Good."
She grins. Sawdust and sunburn and shegrinsat me — open, unguarded — and for a second I forget David Mitchell exists. All I can see is her.
"Next one," she says, moving to the ladder. "Reid, you can let go."
"Oh thank God." He shakes his arms out, rolling his shoulders. "My left deltoid was about to mutiny."
"Drink some water."
"I'm fine?—"
