Page 285 of What We Brave
Reid's value is different. He's the one who notices when I haven'tstopped in two hours. Who shows up at my elbow with the canteen I didn't ask for and stands there until I drink. Who drops into the shade and says "Five minutes" like it's his idea, making it easy for me to follow instead of pushing through because stopping feels like weakness.
Two different kinds of holding. I need both of them, and I'm not afraid to admit it.
Not anymore.
I'm setting a brace pin when I see Reid lean too far on the scaffolding. Reaching for a chisel that's slid across the platform. His weight shifts. The board under his foot flexes.
"Reid." Sharp. Out before I've thought about it.
He freezes, thank fuck.
"Back foot toward me. Shift your weight."
He does. The board settles.
"See?" He scoots back to center. "This is why you're here."
"Because you have no self-preservation instinct?"
"I was going to say 'because you care about me,' but sure, let's go with yours." He waves the chisel. "Got it, though."
"Next time ask me to hand it to you."
"Where's the fun in that?"
I glare at him. My hands are shaking. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice.
It's not the heat or the fatigue. It's the image — Reid falling six feet onto concrete. The sound his body would make. The way his face would look when?—
Stop.
I drive the pin in. Focus on the impact of the hammer. The clean bite of wood on wood.
He's fine. He's right there. He's fine.
Footsteps on gravel. I look up.
Laine's mom is there, holding a tray covered with a cloth. Blue dress, practical, hair pulled back. She looks like she hasn't slept. I fucking hate that she's hurting, but I don't get it. Laine's fucking incredible. There's no reason to stop loving her. So I don't get where she's coming from.
She looks at me. I brace for it. I wouldn't blame her if she tore a strip off of me. Hell, she can do her worst if it means that she's a little softer with Laine.
"Lunch," she says. Sets the tray on the work table. "Señora Reyes made tamales." A beat. "I didn't cook, so it's safe."
Reid's laugh is softer than usual. "Appreciate the warning, Mrs. Mitchell."
"Mary," she corrects. Automatic. Then she catches herself — like she's not sure the warmth is still authorized — and smooths the cloth on the tray without looking at any of us too long.
Laine climbs down from the scaffolding. Wipes her hands on her jeans. "Thanks, Mom."
Mary looks at her daughter. Sawdust in her hair, dirt-streaked, sunburned. I bet this is what she looked like when she was a kid. Is she wondering where she went wrong with Laine? How she ended up with a daughter that would choose two men instead of something 'normal'.
"You always did like getting your hands dirty," Mary says quietly.
"Learned from you."
Mary's mouth tightens. She touches Laine's arm — fingertips, barely there — then turns and walks back toward the houses.
Laine watches her go. I see the ache move through her — the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her hand opens and closes.
