Chapter 15 #2
He hands the plates back. Blake automatically trades me a stack of napkins for my extra salsa cup, our hands brushing.
We shift around each other on the wet pavement, settling into a tight little triangle.
I look at Reid, practically vibrating with joy over a taco, and then at Blake, a quiet, solid wall at my back.
How could I possibly choose?
I almost laugh out loud at my own arrogance.
Listen to yourself, Laine. Like I'm some prize they're both desperately lining up for.
It's ridiculous. Reid might want me now, but he doesn't know I kissed his best friend.
Once he finds out, nobody is going to be choosing anybody.
It's just going to detonate. This could be the absolute last night I ever get this happy, unfiltered version of Reid.
The last time the three of us stand in a circle without the air turning toxic.
I should be sick to my stomach. I should be bracing for the fallout. Instead, I'm standing here soaking up the way they balance each other out, wishing I could just freeze us right here. Both of them. Together. At the same time.
I take a very large bite of my taco and think about literally anything else.
The tacos are ridiculous. Carnitas with pickled onions and a salsa verde that makes my eyes water. Reid groans around his first bite, this low, satisfied sound that makes me laugh despite everything.
"Good?" I ask.
"I think I'm having a religious experience. I'm converting. To whatever religion worships this man's grandmother." He takes another bite, eyes closed, one hand over his heart. "This is art."
"It's meat in a tortilla," Blake says.
"You have no soul." Reid wheels toward me, outraged. "Tell him, Laine. Tell him this man is an artist and Blake is committing a hate crime against his craft."
"I'm not getting involved."
"Coward." He shakes his head mournfully, then steals a piece of Blake's taco right off the plate. Blake doesn't even flinch—just shifts his plate a quarter inch closer to Reid, like he expected it.
This is the version I remember. The easy rhythm they fall into when they're not trying so hard. Maybe they're going to be okay.
We find a bench near a fountain that's been turned off for winter, eating in comfortable silence while people flow past. Reid sits sideways with one leg tucked under him, pointing out a kid having a full meltdown over dropped ice cream.
"That kid is all of us," Reid declares. "That kid is living the human experience right there."
Blake quietly trades his extra taco to Reid when Reid finishes his first. Doesn't that just sum up the man. He gives in every aspect of his life.
"So," Reid says, wiping his hands on a napkin and bumping Blake's shoulder with his own. "How's work been, Laine?"
Normal conversation. We're having normal conversation like normal people. Weird. "Helped deliver a baby last week. She didn't even make it off the paramedic's gurney."
"Laine! That's so cool! I remember my first delivery. I threw up after. And I couldn't watch Aliens for like six months after that."
"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 our job to 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 murdering Fleetwood 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 is real. 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.
I watch his shoulders climb toward his ears. That stubborn set to his mouth. He's not having fun anymore—he's proving something. To himself, to Blake, to me. I'm not sure which.
His last ring bounces twice and lands on the ground.
"Tough luck!" The woman smiles sympathetically. "Want to try again?"
Oh, please no.
Before Reid can answer, Blake steps forward. Pulls out a five. Takes the three rings without a word.
"Blake—"
"Just watch." Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. It's just a game, it's not a big deal.
At least it's not supposed to be.
His first throw is almost lazy. Easy arc, gentle spin. It drops over a bottle neck with a little clink.
The woman claps. "Winner! Pick any prize from the bottom row!"
Blake doesn't even look at the prizes. Just throws again. Another perfect landing.
"Oh! Two in a row! You can pick from the second row now!"
Reid's expression has shifted to a careful blankness that looks all kinds of wrong on him.
Blake's third ring lands with the same effortless precision. The woman actually gasps.
"Three for three! You can pick anything from the top!"
Blake turns to me, and for a second his mask slips. There's something almost desperate in his eyes—not showing off, not competing. It's something else. A hope maybe. Or desperation. I can't look away.
"Pick something," he says.
Yeah. This is going to be bad. And I'm right in the middle of it. Blake put me there. I should pick something small. Something that doesn't matter. Something that won't make this worse and let us all move on.
Instead, my eyes find a ridiculous oversized penguin near the top. The kind of thing you win at state fairs. The kind of thing that says someone tried really hard to impress you.
Blake follows my gaze. Nods at the woman.
"The penguin."
She hands it over. It's almost as big as my torso.
Reid is already walking toward the basketball booth.
"Reid—" I start.
"I'm getting you something bigger." His voice is light but his jaw is set.
Oh no.
Blake watches him go. Something tightens in his face—not guilt exactly, but recognition. Like he just realized what he did and can't take it back.
"I shouldn't have—"
"No," I agree. "You shouldn't have."
But I'm clutching the penguin anyway, and we're both following Reid to the next booth, and somehow this stupid carnival competition feels like everything that's wrong between us condensed into stuffed animals and plastic rings.
Reid's already handing over cash. The teenager running the booth looks thrilled.
Blake positions himself beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Not quite. Never quite.
"He's going to be at this all night," Blake murmurs.
"I know."
"I made it worse."
"I know that too."