Page 298 of What We Brave
"All week. How they work. How they talk to each other. How they are with the kids." He rolls the thermos between his palms. "How they are with you."
I wait. My hands are clasped in my lap and I'm gripping my own fingers hard enough that my knuckles ache. I want him to see them clearly so badly.
"Reid—" He pauses. Nods to himself. "Reid's got a good heart. Open. Genuine. The kind of man who walks into a room and everyone feels better."
"Yeah."
"And Blake." Longer pause. He takes a breath and lets it out slow. "I watched him with a little boy today. On the soccer field."
I didn't know about that. "What happened?"
"Nothing big." He turns the thermos in his hands. "Shy kid. Hanging back from the game. Blake crouched down, took his hand, let that boy lead him around the field for an hour." He clears his throat. "Put himself between that child and every bigger kid who ran past. Didn't think about it. Just did it."
Of course he did.My eyes burn.
"They're good men, Laine."
Four words. And look — I know that doesn't sound like a lot. But this is David Mitchell. The man who reads people to keep his family safe. Who doesn't waste words, ever. Four words from my father, after five days of watching and measuring and turning it over in that quiet head of his?—
Don't you dare cry again. You just stopped crying. Your face can't take another round.
"Dad—"
"I'm not going to pretend I understand it." He looks at me. Directly. "I don't. I've been praying and thinking and talking to your mother, and I still don't understand how this works. This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "This isn't what I pictured."
"I know."
"But you're my daughter." His voice drops. Just enough. "You're my kid. And you've always known your own mind. Even when you were small. Even when I wished you didn't."
I almost laugh.Almost.Because it's not the first time he's told me that. The talking might have come from Mom, but the stubborn is all him.
He's quiet for a moment. Rolling the thermos. Looking at the mountains.
"I may not understand the shape of the thing you're building," he says. "But I trust the builder. He doesn't make mistakes, even if I might not understand his design."
Oh.
Oh, God.
Nope. Crying. Crying again. So much for my face.
The tears spill. I don't try to stop them. What's the point? I've cried more this week than in the last year combined.
He reaches over. Puts his hand on mine. His palm is rough — always has been, as long as I can remember. Calloused and dry and warm.
We sit there. His hand on mine. The mountains and the dark and the crickets.
"Okay," I finally whisper.
"Okay," he says.
He squeezes my hand once. Picks up his thermos. Takes a sip. Looks back at the mountains.
That's it. That's the whole conversation. With my mother, I got tears and confessions and apologies and an entire emotional excavation. With my father, I got four words and a hand squeeze.
Both of them said the same thing.
We're here. We're not going anywhere.
