Chapter 47
LAINE
Reid appears in the doorway holding the lasagna pan like it personally offended him.
"This cheese is never coming off." He tilts it toward us, showing the brown concrete stuck to the corners. "It's fused. This is a chemical bond now. We should just throw it away."
"You're not throwing away my pan."
"Our pan. Community property." He sets it on the coffee table—Angie lifts her wine glass just in time—and drops onto the floor beside my legs, back against the couch. "I'm telling you, it's over. That cheese won."
Three hours. Three hours of wine and lasagna and Tony's impression of their station chief, and nobody's made it weird.
When Reid suggested inviting all our friends over, I wanted to say no.
It felt like too much pressure. But it's been great.
Tony and Angie are blending so easily with Jamila and Kerry, it's like they've known each other forever.
It's easy. Maybe too easy, but I'm not going to think about that right now.
"Boil water in it," I say. "Let it sit for twenty minutes. The cheese will lift right off."
He twists to look up at me. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"Boil water."
"Yep."
"Where did you learn that?"
"My mom." I take a sip of wine. "She burned everything she ever cooked. Toast. Rice. Soup. The woman could burn water. But she could clean a pan, because she destroyed about ten thousand of them."
"Is she any better now?" Jamila asks.
"God, no. My mom's a menace in a kitchen. But she knows her way around a scrub brush."
Reid grins. That stupid wide grin that rearranges his whole face. "Where were you when I spent forty minutes scrubbing a muffin tin last week?"
"Watching you suffer, probably."
His hand finds my ankle. Thumb pressing into the bone. Casual. He does this—finds a place to touch and just holds on.
"Reid!" Tony's voice from the kitchen. "I don't give a shit if you don't like clean up. Man the fuck up!"
"I'm consulting an expert!"
"You're hiding!"
Blake's voice now. Dry. "Get your ass back in here."
"No respect." Reid's already on his feet, grabbing the pan. "I get no respect in this house." He points at me. "Boil water. Twenty minutes. If this doesn't work, I'm blaming you."
He kisses the top of my head, snatches Claire out of Angie's arms, and disappears.
Six months old and I just met her tonight. She was born while everything between us was in pieces. I missed the whole thing—Tony handing out cigars, Reid showing up at the hospital with a stuffed elephant the size of a Labrador. All of it.
The room settles. From the kitchen—Reid defending himself, Blake's low laugh, Kerry saying something that makes Tony cackle. She's been in there with the guys most of the night. Give her a beer and a group of dudes and she's happier than at any brunch.
Angie watches the doorway where Reid disappeared.
"I can't even imagine," she says.
"Imagine what?"
"Two of them." She nods toward the kitchen. "I've got one husband and one baby and some days I'm not sure either of us is going to survive it. You've got two men in this house full-time." She shakes her head. "How do you even do it?"
Crap. Jinxed it. I had to go and get comfortable.
I turn my wine glass by the stem. My heart's doing that jumpy thing it does when I'm about to either say something honest or something stupid. Usually both.
But Angie's face is open. Curious. And there's no edge in her voice. She knew before she walked in. Tony told her. She brought wine and let Blake carry her diaper bag and complimented the lasagna twice.
She's not attacking you. Calm down.
"It's complicated," I say. "There are logistics nobody warns you about. And people look at us sometimes when we're out, trying to figure us out." I shrug. "But that's other people. That's not us. Inside this house it just works."
I catch myself. Hear how earnest that sounds. How after-school special.
"Thanks for coming to my TED talk."
Angie laughs. Jamila shakes her head into her wine.
"No, seriously though," Angie says. "Does it ever feel—I don't want to be nosy—"
"I'd rather you just ask the question." I'm bracing for the sex question, but she surprises me.
Her cheeks go pink. "Okay. So, is it hard making sure no one's left out?
Or maybe that's not a problem? I don't mean in the bedroom.
I'm not that big of an asshole. But everyone, men especially, are needy.
" She slaps a hand over her face. "I don't mean it in a bad way.
But like, Tony wants my attention when he's home. Having two Tony's would be exhausting."
Yep. I'm giggle snorting. "Sometimes. If one of us is having a crap day and the other two are fine, yeah, that person can feel like the odd one out.
But that's just a human thing, not a three-person thing.
" I take a sip. "And sometimes Blake and Reid have twenty years of history I can't touch.
But then Reid and I are talking about a patient and Blake's completely lost. Or Blake and I are fighting about where the bookshelf goes and Reid couldn't care less.
" I look at her. "We're three people. We're not going to overlap perfectly. We're not supposed to."
Angie nods. Slow. "Tony said Reid's been different. Settled, was his word."
"He is," I say. "They both are."
"It's true," Jamila says. She's been quiet, curled in the armchair. Watching. "Last time Kerry and I were over, Blake talked to her for an hour about dovetail joints. An hour. She came home and tried to build a shelf."
"Did she?" Angie asks.
"It has one shelf. And it's crooked. She put a vase on it and the damn thing slid right off and shattered on the floor."
I'm laughing and my eyes are burning at the same time.
Don't you dare cry at your own dinner party.
I take a drink. A big one.
Because Jamila's been here for the worst of it. I cried on her floor. Drank her wine. Let Kerry peel bottles out of my hands. And now she's sitting in my living room telling Angie we've found our way through.
"They've got a good thing," Jamila says. Looking right at me. Her mouth curves. Warm. Certain. "All three of them."
I blink. Sip my wine. Blink again.
Nope. We're fine. Moving on.
"Good," Angie says. Simple. Done. "That's really good, Laine."
The kitchen erupts—Tony's laugh, Reid saying something indignant, Kerry's voice cuts through: "Garrison, you are absolutely wrong about that—"
Blake comes through the doorway with a tray. Pie slices, forks, napkins—arranged with that quiet precision he can't shut off. Reid's behind him bouncing Claire against his chest. She's wide awake now, one fist wrapped around his collar. Tony's got coffee. Kerry brings up the rear with her beer.
"He thinks," Kerry announces, dropping onto the floor and stretching her legs out, "that the Trail Blazers have a shot at the playoffs."
"They mathematically have a shot—" Reid says, glaring at Kerry, who seems completely unbothered.
"They mathematically have a shot at last place."
"Kerry, I swear to God—"
Blake sets the tray down and settles on the floor near my feet. Back against the couch. His shoulder presses against my calf. He doesn't look up, just leans in. Warm. Solid. Present.
He's been here all night. Talked to Tony about the house. Showed Kerry his lathe. Let Angie corner him about her grandmother's dresser. He hasn't disappeared to the workshop once. I wouldn't have blamed him if he did. It's a loud group.
"Who made the pie?" Tony asks, already halfway through his slice.
"Blake," I say. The man's baking is on the next level. Those cooking shows have really paid off. Turns out, the man blushes when you compliment his baked goods, so I do it often.
"Dude." Tony points his fork at him. "This is incredible."
Blake shrugs against my knee. "It's just pie."
"It's not just pie. Angie, we need to have them over every week."
Jamila takes a bite. Closes her eyes. "You bake too? You build furniture and bake pies?"
"And changes his own oil," Kerry adds.
Jamila shakes her head. "I haven't figured out how to make anything this good."
"Remember when you made that pie for my mom?" Kerry says. "For Christmas?"
Jamila's eyes go wide. "We agreed never to speak of that."
"You forgot the sugar."
"The recipe was unclear—"
"It said one cup sugar. In bold."
"The font was small!"
"It was fourteen-point, babe. I checked."
Reid's swaying with Claire, talking to her in that low steady voice he uses with patients. She's staring up at him. Fascinated.
I can picture it. Reid with our baby someday. Those hands. That voice. That same easy sway.
So predictable. So annoyingly, biologically predictable.
I look at Blake. He's eating his pie, watching Reid and Claire. Something careful in his jaw.
Claire fusses. Squirms against Reid's chest.
"I think she wants a new victim," Reid says. He looks at Blake. "Tag. You're in."
Blake goes still. Just for a second—his shoulders, his jaw.
Then he sets down his plate and holds out his hands.
Reid transfers her. Claire startles—new arms, new chest, new person—and then she settles against Blake's flannel. His hands span almost her entire back. She's so small against him.
"Jesus," Tony says. "Your bicep is bigger than her head."
"She's got a big head," Angie offers.
"She does not—"
"Tony, I was there. I pushed her out. Ninety-fifth percentile. The pediatrician showed us the chart."
Blake's not listening. He's looking down at Claire. His thumb moves across her back—slow, careful—and his face opens up. The lines around his mouth ease. His shoulders drop. Claire grabs his finger. Holds on.
He lets her.
"You just got about a hundred times hotter," I say.
His eyes flick up to me. A flush creeps up his neck. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to. His mouth twitches and he looks back down at Claire and—
God. Blake holding a baby is something I may never get over.
"So Laine," Tony says, leaning back with his coffee. "Is it true Reid set off the smoke alarm trying to make you breakfast in bed?"
"Which time?"
"There's been more than once?"