Page 94 of What We Brave
A throuple. I'd tried the word out loud in the rig while Tony was in the gas station bathroom. Just me and the steering wheel and the faint smell of stale coffee. Throuple. Rolled it around like a marble I didn't know what to do with. It sounded like something from a reality TV show. Not something that happened to guys like me.
Except maybe it fucking did.
I drummed my fingers against my knee. Shifted in my seat. Shifted again.
Maybe it did.
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. Sit there for a minute, hands still on the wheel. Blake's truck is here. So is the light in his workshop, spilling yellow through the small window.
Great. We're doing this tonight, I guess.
My legs feel heavy when I climb out. Not tired-heavy. Dread-heavy. The kind of weight that settles in your bones when you know a hard conversation is coming and there's no way around it.
The workshop door creaks when I push it open. I keep meaning to oil those hinges. Or more specifically, tell Blake to oil them. Because I have absolutely no idea how to do that. Is it WD-40? Actual oil? Do hinges even take oil? Doesn't matter. Not the point.
Sawdust and wood stain and that old concrete smell hit me before I'm two steps in. Usually that smell relaxes me — makes my shoulders drop without me even thinking about it. Tonight it just makes me think of all the hours Blake and I have spent in this room. From the dark moments, to kicking back with a beer. If we're going to do heavy, it's good it'll happen here.
Blake's not at the workbench. That's the first thing that feels off.
He's on the couch. The beat-up one in the corner — the one we hauled off somebody's curb three years ago because Blake said he needed somewhere to "think" between projects. Which, sure. The fabric's got more mystery stains than original color at this point, but neither of us has ever floated the idea of replacing it. You don't replace a couch like that. It knows too much.
He's just sitting there. Staring at the floor like it owes him money.
"You look like you had the kind of day I did."
Blake doesn't jump. Doesn't even turn his head. "Didn't hear you come in."
"Clearly." I grab the metal stool by the workbench and drag it over. The legs scrape against the concrete — sharp, loud, obnoxious in the quiet. Good. Quiet was getting too comfortable in here. "You been sitting here long?"
"Couple hours."
"Productive."
"Incredibly." He finally looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot. Tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix. "You first, or me?"
That's Blake. Straight to it. No small talk, no dancing around. Part of me is grateful. The other part wanted another few minutes to figure out what the hell I'm going to say.
"Me, I guess." I settle onto the stool. It wobbles under my weight. "I don't know if I can watch you two together without wanting to break something."
Yeah, we're going there. No easing into this conversation.
Blake doesn't flinch. Just nods slowly, like he expected exactly that. "Okay."
"That's it? Okay?"
"What do you want me to say, Reid?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands hang loose between them, but I can see the tension in his forearms. The way his fingers keep flexing. "You think I don't get that? I watched you two for months. Every dinner. Every time you touched her in the kitchen. Every time she looked at you like — " He stops. Jaw tight. "I know what that feels like. Pretty fucking intimately."
Right. I somehow let myself forget that.
He's been living this while I was oblivious. Walking around with that weight while I brought Laine home and kissed her and talked about the future like Blake wasn't standing right there.
"And you didn't break anything," I say.
Something flickers across his face. "I broke plenty. You know that."
Fuck. Yeah, I know that. Maybe if I'd seen him throw a plate across the room, or put his fist through the drywall I would have woken the fuck up sooner.
Neither of us says anything for a while. Blake picks up a chisel from the workbench beside him, turns it over in his hands. Not doing anything with it. Just holding it.
