Chapter 20 #2
"Tony's going to be insufferable. When he finds out?
Holy shit." I tip my head back against the wall.
"He's going to do the thing where he pretends to be supportive for about thirty seconds and then it's just nonstop.
'Hey Reid, does Blake take your turns doing dishes or does Laine have a chore wheel?
' 'Hey Reid, do you guys have a group text or is it more of a reply-all situation?
'" I drop my voice into Tony's cadence. "'Hey Reid, if Blake eats your leftovers, is that a roommate problem or a relationship problem? '"
"Sounds like a real gem."
"He's the best partner I've ever had and I will literally never hear the end of this." I scrub my hands over my face. "But it's not really about Tony. It's about Laine."
"What about her?"
"It's her job. Her friends. Joyce — the head nurse, you met her at the thing. She's basically Laine's mom out here. What happens when Laine has to explain this to Joyce? To Jamila? To her actual parents who literally build churches?"
"That's Laine's call to make."
"Yeah, but I'd be part of the reason she has to make it. We both would." I pick at a crack in the concrete floor. "And I don't care what people think about me. Never have. But she might care. And this is going to cost her."
Blake doesn't have a response to that. We sit with it for a while.
"What about down the road?" I ask the ceiling. "Long term."
"How long term?"
"The longest term. The whole enchilada." I pause. "Kids, Blake."
He goes completely still. The air in the workshop gets thicker.
"Kids," he repeats.
"I've always wanted them. You know that.
" I lift my head to look at him. "I used to think about it with Laine.
Teaching a kid to throw a ball. Coaching little league.
Getting puked on at three AM and being weirdly okay with it.
The whole stupid beautiful mess of it." My voice goes rougher than I want it to.
"And now I don't know what that picture looks like. Or if it even exists anymore."
Blake stares at the concrete floor for a long time. Long enough that I think he's done talking.
"I never let myself think that far ahead," he says finally. "Even before all this."
"Why?"
"Come on, Reid."
"No, seriously."
His jaw works. "Because I don't trust myself with that." The words come in a snap. "A kid can't walk away from you. A kid is stuck with whoever you are. And I know who I am. I know what I'm capable of."
"You're also capable of rebuilding a stranger's wheelchair ramp for free. And mentoring twenty-year-old Marines who think they're invincible. And moving in with a friend because he's spiraling out."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because they can leave. A kid can't fire their dad for being—" He stops. Swallows whatever word was coming.
I fucking hate that he thinks this way about himself. That he can't see the good man he truly is. I know he'd be an amazing dad, but he's not going to hear me if I tell him that.
"We don't have to figure that out tonight," I say after a while.
"No."
"Or this year."
"Probably not."
"I just needed to say it out loud. That it matters to me. That I think about it."
"I know." His voice is rough. "And I'm not saying no. I'm saying I don't know. And that scares the shit out of me."
"I can work with 'I don't know.'" I pause. "'I don't know' is like, miles better than 'absolutely not, Reid, you delusional optimist.'"
Something that's almost a laugh escapes him. Almost.
More silence. But it's different now. Lighter somehow. Like we've gotten past the worst parts — or at least enough of them to take a full breath.
I lean my head back against the wall again. The concrete is cool through my pants. Grounding.
"So where does this leave us?" I ask. "We don't have answers. We don't know if it'll work. We're both scared shitless. I'm sitting on your workshop floor like a teenager having a crisis—"
"I'm having the crisis."
"We're both having a crisis. Don't hog the crisis." I look at him. "But we're doing it anyway? Trying?"
Blake takes his time. Studies me the way he studies a piece of wood before he starts working on it — checking for cracks, figuring out what it can hold.
"I'm willing," he says. "If you are."
"I'm willing."
"Okay."
"Okay." I push myself up off the floor. Brush concrete dust off my pants. "So we call Laine. Tomorrow. All three of us sit down and talk. For real."
"What time?"
"After work. Give her time to get home, settle in."
"Dinner?"
"Maybe not." I think about it. "Maybe we just talk first. Figure out where everyone's head is before we add food and seating arrangements and all that."
"Keep it simple."
"Yeah." I almost laugh. "When has anything about this been simple?"
"Never. Not once."
"Cool. Great track record. Very reassuring."
I grab the stool and drag it back to its usual spot by the workbench.
Blake stays on the couch, slumped back against the cushions.
He looks exhausted. But the thing that's been living in his shoulders for months — that constant bracing, like he's always waiting for the next hit — is dialed down a few notches. Not gone. But quieter.
"For the record," he says, still staring at the ceiling, "I meant what I said. About not knowing if I'll handle it well. You and her. Being here when you're..." He stops. Swallows. "I'm not going to pretend that doesn't exist. Or that I handled it well before."
"I know. Same goes for me." I shove my hands in my pockets. "But I'd rather be bad at this than spend the rest of my life wondering. I've done enough of that."
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "Same."
We sit there a while longer. Not talking. Not needing to. The workshop settles around us — the sawdust smell, the fluorescent buzz, the creak of old springs when Blake shifts his weight.
Tomorrow we'll call Laine.
Tomorrow we'll start trying to build something none of us can picture yet.
Tonight?
"Wanna get drunk?"