Page 42 of What We Brave
"Was thinking about it. Past tense." I pause. "Or maybe it's becoming present tense. I'm not sure yet."
"What changed?"
You, I think.Seeing you handle that trauma tonight. Watching you smile at me across a room full of blood and chaos like nothing had changed. Like I was still the person you saw that first night with the festival patients.
But I don't say that. Instead, I say, "I think I'm tired of letting fear make my decisions."
Reid nods slowly. "I understand that."
"Do you?"
"More than I'd like to admit." He stands, and suddenly the small room feels smaller. He's only a few feet away now, close enough that I can see a few individual threads of grey in his dark hair, the small scar on his jaw that I used to trace with my fingertip. "I spent too long letting fear run my life. Fear of losing you. Fear of being alone. Fear of what it meant that Blake?—"
He stops. Swallows.
"Fear of what it meant that Blake was in love with the same woman I was in love with," he finishes. "Am in love with. That hasn't changed."
The words land like a physical thing. I feel them in my chest, my throat, the backs of my eyes.
"Reid—"
"I'm not saying that to pressure you." He holds up both hands, palms out. "As much as I might dream of us getting back together, I know it's probably never going to happen. And I'm learning to be okay with that."
The words hurt more than they should, given that he's only agreeing with me. That's it. That's all he's doing—saying the thing I've been telling myself for weeks. The logical conclusion. The only safe choice.
So why does hearing him say it so calmly make me want to push back? That's ridiculous. This is what I wanted. For him to understand that we can't go back.
Isn't it?
So why does it feel like losing him all over again?
"I just—" He runs a hand over his face. "I wanted you to know that seeing you tonight wasn't some kind of sign or fate or whatever. We work in the same medical system, and we're still short-staffed, so I'm taking a few night shifts every week. We were always going to run into each other eventually. But it was good to see you. It's always good to see you. And if you want to go back to Pine Street, you should." He stops, sucking in a deep breath. "Don't let me being there sometimes stop you from doing something you love."
I study him—this man who crashed into my life with a joke about butterfly patients and stayed long enough to make me believe I could stop running. Who hurt me. Who scared me. Who sat across from me in a coffee shop a few days ago and told me he still loved me while his best friend admitted the same thing.
"You said you've been staying away," I say. "From Pine Street."
"Yeah."
"But you just said you might be there sometimes. If I go back."
Reid's mouth quirks. "I said I stayed away after I realized what I was doing. Stopped going for about a month. But Danny called a couple of weeks ago, said they were short-handed, asked if I could help out just for one Saturday." He shrugs. "I couldn't say no. Not to Danny."
"So you're going again."
"Sometimes. Not every week. Blake's been going more than me, actually. He says it helps."
"Helps with what?"
"Being a person, I think. Having a purpose that isn't just about me or the house or his work." Reid's voice softens. "He's trying, Laine. Really trying. I'm not asking you to forgive him—that's not my forgiveness to ask for. But he's different than he was."
I don't know what to do with that information. The Blake I remember is a tangle of contradictions—warm and cold, cruel and kind, broken in ways I couldn't understand until he showed up at my apartment with blood on his face and confessed everything.
"We're not—" I start, then stop. Try again. "The other day, when Blake said he loved me. I need you to know that nothing everhappened between us. He was horrible to me. Cruel. He made me feel crazy and small and unwelcome in your home."
Reid tucks his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on mine. "I know."
"But nothing happened. I never—I was never interested in him that way. I loved you. I only ever loved you." Crap. That's a lie. But just a tiny one. There was interest there, with Blake. Awareness. But it's true that I never crossed that line.
