Page 284 of What We Brave
"Reid."
He looks up at me. I hold the canteen out over the edge of the scaffolding.
"...Fine." He takes it. Drinks. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know, the whole 'protective' thing you do is very attractive and also very annoying."
"Not trying to be attractive. Especially to you."
"And yet." He grins up at me, bats his eyes, and takes another drink.
Idiot.Spent all morning hauling lumber he doesn't know how to measure, holding posts he doesn't understand the purpose of, breathing sawdust that's wrecking his lungs — and he hasn't complained once. Not really. The jokes are the complaints. The drama is the closest Reid gets to admitting he's uncomfortable.
But he's here. In the heat. Doing work that bores him, that his body isn't trained for, that requires the kind of patience he's not built for. Unless they're someone hurt or bleeding that is. But he's not going anywhere because I'm here. Because Laine is here.
He's so much stronger than he used to be.
He's going to be okay.
Yeah, he'll always be better with us. But for the first time I think Reid would be okay, even if he was on his own.
And it's such a relief I almost tear the fuck up. I don't. Not going to let that happen right now. But one of these days I'm going to tell him how fucking proud I am of him.
Laine's at the lumber pile, sorting through boards. Running her hand along the grain — checking for defects, feeling for moisture. She pulls one, holds it up so I can see.
This one?
I nod.
She brings it to the scaffolding. Reid steps in to help her lift and for a second we're all three moving together — Laine tilts her end, I adjust mine, Reid braces the middle. No one speaks. No one needs to. We know what we're doing by now. The board goes up and into position smoothly.
"You two are kind of scary when you do that," Reid says.
"Do what?" I ask, glancing at him.
"The mind-reading thing. The construction telepathy." He waves between me and Laine. "I feel like I should be wearing a hard hat and staying out of the way."
"You should definitely be wearing a hard hat," Laine says.
"There are no hard hats."
"Then stay out of the way."
"I amhelping?—"
"You're helping beautifully," she says, and kisses his shoulder as she passes him on the platform, giving me a little glare. "Hold this, Baby."
He holds it. Whateverthisis. He doesn't ask.
Movement at the far end of the building. David. He's stopped working on the junction box and he's watching us.
Not watching Laine.
Watching the three of us.
I hold his gaze for a second. Then I look away. Back to the joint. Back to the wood. He can watch all he wants. All he's going to see is how much we love Laine.
There's no telling if he's going to be okay with us. But I'm going to do everything I fucking can to show him the kind of man I am.
We work for another hour. Laine and I fall into a rhythm that doesn't need direction — she anticipates the next shim, the next wedge, the next measurement. She knows when a joint is tight enough by the sound the mallet makes. I find myself leaning into it — the ease of working beside someone who speaks the same language. At home every project taught us something new about how the other one thinks.
