Page 70 of What We Brave
"You are so weird," I tell him, laughing. "Anything exciting happen to you this week?"
"Oh man. Okay. So Tony almost set his pants on fire last week." His whole face is alive. Eyes shining, grinning. Reid at his best.
"How?"
"So we're at the station, right? And Tony decides he's going to impress everyone by making bananas foster. Which—first of all, Tony has never made anything more complicated than spaghetti and boxed meatballs. But he watched one YouTube video and now he's a chef." Reid is fully animated now, hands moving, leaning forward on the bench. "So he's got the rum, he's got the pan, he's doing the whole flambé thing—and I swear to God, the flame jumps sideways, catches the towel he's got tucked in his waistband like some kind of wannabe line cook?—"
"No."
"Yes.Full flame. On his ass. And instead of, I don't know, stopping, dropping, and rolling—which is literally ourjobto know—he just starts spinning in circles going 'BRO BRO BRO BRO' while Martinez hits him with the extinguisher."
I'm laughing. Full belly laughing—the kind that aches in my stomach and makes my eyes water. Reid grins at me like he just won something.
"The best part? The bananas foster was actually pretty good."
Blake shakes his head, but there's a real smile there. Small, barely visible, but real.
We wander deeper into the market after finishing, past jewelry vendors and a woman selling hand-painted sun catchers. The drizzle has stopped, leaving everything slick and glittering under the string lights.
Reid walks between us, narrating a running commentary on everything we pass. He rates the cover band ("solid six, they're murderingFleetwood Mac but with enthusiasm"), critiques someone's kettle corn technique ("too much sugar, not enough salt, it's a travesty"), and gets into a thirty-second debate with a candle vendor about whether "Ocean Breeze" actually smells like the ocean. The vendor seems charmed. Everyone always seems charmed.
This is who he is. This is who he's been fighting his way back to. And I can see it costs him—there's a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before everything fell apart, a slight manic edge to the brightness. But the brightness isreal. He's not performing. He's just... running a little hot.
I didn't know how much I needed to see this. To see him bouncing back, even if the bounce isn't quite as high as it used to be. He's going to be okay.
Until I tell him I kissed his best friend. I am so completely selfish.
He catches me watching and shoots me a grin, and I look away stomach churning.
Luckily for me, Reid spots the midway and his whole body changes. He grabs Blake's arm. "Oh, we're doing this."
It's nothing fancy—just a cluster of charity game booths set up near the back. Ring toss, basketball shots, one of those strongman hammer things.
"Reid—" Blake says, shaking his head.
But Reid's already walking, that competitive glint in his eye that I remember from speed golf. The man cannot resist a challenge.
The ring toss booth is manned by an older woman with a "Toys for Tots" button pinned to her sweater. Behind her, rows of stuffed animals hang from hooks—small ones at the bottom, increasingly ridiculous sizes toward the top.
"Three rings for five dollars," she says. "Land one on a bottle, win a prize."
Reid slaps down a ten. "Six rings. Let's do this."
Blake hangs back beside me, arms crossed, watching with an expression that's hard to read. I can't tell if he's waiting for Reid to fail, or something else is going on.
Reid's first throw bounces off a bottle neck. His second goes wide.Third one actually lands—on the wrong bottle, apparently, because the woman shakes her head.
"Close! Try again!"
Reid's jaw tightens. He adjusts his stance, narrows his eyes at the bottles like they've personally offended him.
"You're throwing too hard," Blake says quietly.
"I got this."
Blake's expression goes flat. "Sure. If you say so."
Reid's fourth throw hits the rim and spins off. His fifth doesn't even make it to the bottles.
