Chapter 21
BLAKE
The nail gun kicks against my palm. Thwack.
Another nail into the rotting frame. Thwack.
February in Oregon means gray skies and that damp cold that seeps through every layer. Mid-forties, maybe, but it feels colder. The kind of wet that settles into your bones and doesn't leave until July.
The garage is a disaster. Has been for years. Reid's been on me about it since I got back—but not for the reasons he's pretending.
"You sure we can't just move the workshop in here?
" he asks from somewhere behind me. He's supposed to be sorting the pile of salvageable lumber from the stuff that's too far gone, but mostly he's been pacing.
Bouncing on his heels. Picking things up and putting them down.
"It's closer to the house. Better lighting.
We could run a heating line from the main—"
"No."
"You'd be right here. No more trudging through the rain at two in the morning—"
"No." I line up another nail. Thwack. "Workshop stays where it is."
What he really means is: If your workshop is attached to the house, maybe you'll stop sleeping out there. Maybe I can keep an eye on you. Maybe you won't disappear into the sawdust for three days straight.
He's not wrong to worry. But I'm not moving the workshop.
I need the distance. The buffer zone between me and everything else. A place to disappear to when the walls start closing in. He doesn't have to like it , but he does have to respect it.
"Fine." He sighs, all dramatic. "Gym it is, then. Since you came back looking like you're about to compete for Mr. Olympia."
I snort. "Fuck off."
"I'm serious. You can barely put your arms down anymore. You walk like you've got invisible watermelons under your armpits."
"That's not—" I set the nail gun down. Flex my shoulders. They are tight. Everything's tight. "It's not that bad."
"Dude. You split a shirt last week."
"That shirt was old."
"It was a flannel. Those things are built like tank armor." Reid grins, enjoying himself way too much. "Face it. You're huge now. Enormous. An absolute unit. You need a place to maintain your beefcake status, and since you won't give up your precious workshop—"
"I'm not giving up the workshop."
"—gym it is." He gestures at the rotting walls. "Soon as we fix the seventeen thousand structural problems you keep finding."
"There are a lot of structural problems."
"Pretty sure there’s a fucking metaphor in there.."
I’m sure there is. Thwack. I sink another nail and reach for my coffee. It's cold. Been cold for an hour. I drink it anyway.
Reid's quiet for about three seconds. A record for him.
"So when are we calling her?"
My hand stills on the mug.
We'd talked about it last night. After too much whiskey and not enough sleep. We'd call Laine today. Invite her over. Sit down like adults and figure out what the hell we're doing.
That was fifteen hours ago. Neither of us has picked up the phone.
"Soon," I say.
"You said that two hours ago."
"I'm working up to it."
"You're procrastinating."
"I'm preparing." I set the mug on the sawhorse. "There's a difference."
"There's really not." Reid hops up onto a stack of drywall, legs swinging. "What are you even going to say? 'Hey Laine, remember when you suggested the three of us date and then we all had emotional breakdowns? Want to come over and do that again?'"
"I was thinking something more along the lines of 'hey, want to talk.'"
"Riveting. She'll be swept off her feet."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Several. All of them involve me not having to watch you stare at your phone like it's a live grenade." He pulls out his own phone, waves it. "I could just text her. Right now. 'Hey, come over, we have beer and unresolved feelings.'"
"Don't you dare."
"'Blake's been pacing for two hours and I think he might wear a hole in the concrete—'"
"Reid."
"'—we promise not to make it weird, except it's definitely going to be weird—'"
"I will break that phone."
He grins, but pockets it. "Fine. But we have to call her eventually. Today. We agreed."
"I know."
"So?"
"So give me a minute."
I pick up the nail gun again. Thwack. The rhythm helps. Keeps my hands busy while my brain runs in circles, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to say to her.
Hey Laine. I know I spent months being cruel to you because I was too chickenshit to admit I was in love with you.
And then I ran away to a war zone instead of dealing with my feelings like an adult.
But I'm back now and I'd really like to try not being a complete disaster of a human being. Interested?
Yeah. That'll go over great.
Gravel crunches in the driveway.
We both freeze.
I know the sound of that engine. The slightly rough idle of an older Honda that probably needs new spark plugs. I've listened for it more times than I want to admit. Pathetic. Like a dog waiting by the window.
Reid's already moving toward the open garage door. "Is that—"
Laine's sedan pulls up to the edge of the cracked concrete and shifts into park.
My stomach drops.
We aren't ready. We didn't call. We were supposed to have a plan, a script, something—
The car door opens. Laine steps out.
She's in jeans and a heavy sweater under her coat, hair down around her shoulders instead of pulled back. Day off clothes. She looks softer like this. Less armored.
She also looks like she hasn't slept in days. That makes two of us.
She doesn't walk toward us right away. Just stands there by the open car door, arms wrapped around herself against the damp cold.
"Hey." Reid's voice is careful. "Everything okay?"
"I couldn't wait." The words come out in a rush. "I know you were supposed to call. I know we were going to plan something. But I've been sitting in my apartment all day going crazy and I just—" She takes a breath. "I couldn't do it anymore. The waiting. The overthinking."
I set down the nail gun. Wipe my hands on my jeans, even though they're not dirty. Just need to do something with them so I don't do something stupid. Like walk over there, yank her to me, and scare the shit out of her.
"Okay," I say. "So let's talk."
Laine finally pushes the car door shut. Takes a few steps onto the concrete pad, stopping near the pile of scrap lumber. Her eyes scan the garage—the exposed studs, the rotting frame I've been trying to salvage, the tools scattered across the sawhorses.
"What are you guys doing out here?"
"Turning it into a gym," Reid says. "Because someone came back from deployment looking like a refrigerator with arms and now needs somewhere to maintain his intimidating physique."
"I don't look like a refrigerator."
"You're right. Refrigerators have better posture." Reid turns to Laine. "Seriously, have you seen him try to scratch his own back? It's like watching a T-rex reach for a cookie jar."
Laine's laugh burbles up. Her eyes flick to me. Travel across my shoulders. Down my arms. Back up.
The flush that creeps up her neck is deeply satisfying.
"I hadn't... noticed," she says, which is an obvious lie.
"Uh-huh." Reid's grin is insufferable. "Anyway. Blake won't move his workshop closer to the house because he's emotionally attached to his sawdust cave, so gym it is. Once we fix the nine hundred structural problems."
Laine almost smiles. Almost. But then her expression shifts, and she wraps her arms tighter around herself.
"I can't do this," she says.
My heart stops. Here it comes. She's done. She drove all the way out here to tell us face to face that—
"The tension," she clarifies quickly, seeing my face. "It's suffocating. Every time I think about seeing you both, I feel like I'm going to throw up. And not in a bad way, necessarily, just—" She shakes her head. "Can we just talk about the elephant? Please?"
I exhale. Didn't realize I'd been holding my breath.
Reid moves closer to her. Not crowding. Just closing some of the distance. "Yeah. Probably should."
Laine takes a breath. Squares her shoulders like she's bracing for a hit.
"I've been thinking. A lot. I talked to Jamila about it for hours. Drank too much. Layed on her floor like a crime scene outline." A weak laugh. "And I think—" Another breath. "I think I want to try this. The three of us. For real."
The words hang in the cold air. I don't move. Don't trust myself to move.
"You're sure?" I ask. It comes out rough. Rough and desperate and I hate how obvious I am.
"No." She laughs, but it's shaky. "I'm terrified. But I'm also tired of being scared. And when I imagine walking away from both of you..." She shakes her head. "I don't want that. I want to see what this could be."
Reid exhales hard, his breath pluming white. "I'm in. You know I'm in."
They both look at me.
I should say something. Something better than what's about to come out of my mouth. I've never been good with words. Gramps used to say I had a poet's soul and a mute's tongue. Load of shit, but the second part's accurate enough.
"Yeah." The word scrapes out like I'm dragging it over gravel. "I want this. More than I know how to say."
Brilliant. Real fucking eloquent.
The rigid tension in Laine's shoulders eases. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice.
"Okay." She exhales. "Okay. So we're doing this."
"So we're dating," Reid says, a grin breaking across his face. "All of us."
"Starting slow," Laine says firmly. "I mean it. Dating. Getting to know each other again. No pressure to figure everything out immediately."
"I can do slow," Reid says. "I'm excellent at slow."
"You're the least slow person I've ever met."
"Slow-ish. I can do slow-ish."
Laine shakes her head, but she's fighting a smile. Then she looks at me, and the smile fades into something more serious. More guarded.
"Blake and I need some one-on-one time. We haven't had the chance to build anything yet. Not really."
Reid nods. "Makes sense."
"You're okay with that?" she asks him.