Page 297 of What We Brave
"What did you expect?"
She thinks about it. "I don't know. Someone harder. Someone who—" She stops. "He looks at you like you're butter, Laine. I noticed that the first day."
Yeah, he does.
"Even when he was pretending to be your friend. Even when he was keeping his distance and being professional and doing everything you asked him to do—" She shakes her head. "That man was never just your friend. I should have seen it sooner."
"Would it have helped?"
"Probably not." A pause. "But maybe I would have had more time to get used to the idea before you dropped it on me at a bonfire."
Yeah, I can't hide the wince. "Fair."
She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "I need time. You know that. This isn't—" She gestures vaguely at the air between us. "It's not going to be easy for me. And I'll probably say stupid things."
"You will definitely say stupid things."
She taps me on the tip of my nose. "Fine. I willdefinitelysay stupid things. But I'll be saying them up close." She holds my gaze. "Not from arm's length. I promise."
Not from arm's length.
Two words — well, a whole sentence, but thepromisepart. Not enough to fix everything. Not enough to undo five days of careful distance or the look on her face by the fire. But I believe her. And right now, that's enough.
She kisses my forehead. Turns back to the sink. Starts washing a plate that's been sitting in the water the whole time we've been talking.
"Go talk to your father," she says. "He's probably out there stewing."
She's right. He's stewing.
On the porch in a folding chair holding his battered thermos. The mountains are black shapes against the last purple light, and he's just —sitting. Looking at them. Dad could outwait a glacier. Has the patience of a man who's spent three decades letting concrete cure and wood dry and people come around on their own time.
I sit down in the chair next to him. It creaks.
He doesn't say anything. I don't either. He might be patient, but I learned from him.
This is how it's always been with us. Mom fills the silence. Dad lives in it. Growing up, our best conversations happened like this — side by side, looking at the same horizon, letting the words come when they were ready.
But I'm out of time, Dad. I need the words even if they're not ready.
"Mom says you've been out here working up to something."
The corner of his mouth moves. "Your mother has never had a thought she didn't share."
"Genetic."
"Definitely genetic." He takes a sip from his thermos. Sets it down on his knee. "She also burned the grilled cheese."
"Destroyed it."
"Those boys ate every bite."
"They did."
He's quiet again, but it doesn't feel like stewing, or avoidance.
"I've been watching them," he says.
My heart picks up. "I know."
