Chapter 48
BLAKE
My duffel's been packed since yesterday. Squared away, zipped, sitting by the door like it's waiting for orders.
Reid's on the floor by the dresser, pulling out charging cables and testing each one on his phone.
"This one's dead. This one's — no, that's dead too. Why do we have four dead cables?"
"Because you bend them."
"I don't bend them."
"You lay in bed with your phone plugged in and yank it at a ninety-degree angle every night."
He holds up a third cable. Inspects the end like it might confess. "This one works. Maybe."
"That one's Laine's."
"She won't notice."
"She will absolutely notice."
He drops it. Picks up another one. "Fine. I'll buy one at the airport."
"For fifteen dollars."
"For the experience, Blake. Airport shopping is part of the journey."
"You're a fucking lunatic."
He grins. Tosses two cables into his backpack — one dead, one questionable — and moves on to snacks.
He's been building what he calls his "carry-on provisions" all week.
Beef jerky, gummy bears, those little cheese cracker packets.
Enough food for a transatlantic flight. We've got a layover with plenty of time to get food, so I don't know why the hell he's so worried.
"Do you think they sell those big Toblerones at our terminal?"
"I don't know, Reid."
"Because last time I flew through Portland they had the big ones. Not the regular big. The big big. Like a weapon."
I almost smile. "Pack your damn bag."
"My bag is packed."
"Your bag is open on the bed with one sock in it."
"That's a system."
"That's a sock."
He laughs and starts actually throwing things into the duffel. No folding. No order. Clothes balled up and shoved into gaps. My hands twitch watching it.
"You know what your problem is?" he says, stuffing a t-shirt on top of his toiletry bag.
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
"You treat airports like a military operation. Shoes off before you hit TSA. Laptop already out. That look on your face like you're clearing a building."
"It's efficient."
"It's terrifying. Last time, that family in front of us literally moved out of your way. The dad grabbed his kid."
"We made the flight."
"We were two hours early."
"And we made the flight."
He shakes his head. Zips the duffel — mostly. One corner of a t-shirt is sticking out. I look at it. Look at him. He sees me looking.
"Don't."
Not a fucking chance. I reach over and tuck it in. Zip it closed.
"Thank you," he says, not meaning it at all.
I sit on the edge of the bed. My duffel by the door, his disaster next to it. Tomorrow morning we're on a plane. A week in Guatemala. No clients, no deadlines, no sawdust. Laine's parents, their village, and whatever a vacation looks like for three people who've never taken one together.
"You eat?" I ask.
"I had a thing."
"What thing?"
"A food thing. Earlier. Cereal adjacent."
"That's not dinner."
"It's dinner if you commit to it."
I'm about to argue when I hear Laine's keys in the front door. Her bag hitting the counter. Shoes off. The small sigh she makes when she's shifting from work-Laine to home-Laine.
I know this soundtrack. Didn't used to let myself pay attention to things like that.
Her footsteps come down the stairs. Slower than usual. She appears in the doorway and leans against the frame, arms crossed, watching us.
I wait for the smile. The soft one she gives when she first sees us. I fucking crave that smile.
It's not there.
There's a tightness around her mouth. Her eyes move from Reid to me and back.
"Can we talk for a sec?"
Reid's hand stops halfway into his backpack. My shoulders don't tense. They go still, which is worse.
"Yeah," I say. "What's up?"
She sits on the chair across from us. Not next to me. Not on the arm of the bed where she usually lands, close enough to lean into someone. Across.
That's when I know.
I don't know what yet. But Laine Mitchell does not put distance between herself and the people she loves unless she's about to say something she thinks they won't want to hear.
Reid clocks it too. His eyes flick to me.
"So." She's got her hands pressed between her knees. Shoulders rounded. Making herself smaller. "I need to tell you guys something about the trip."
"Okay," Reid says. Easy. Open. His on-the-job voice — someone's scared and he needs them to keep talking.
I wait.
"My parents—" She stops. Starts again. "When I told my parents we were coming, I didn't — I wasn't completely honest with them. About us."
"What do you mean?" Reid asks.
"They know about you, Reid." She's looking at her knees. "They know he's my boyfriend. But they don't know about the three of us. About what we are." Her jaw works. "They think Blake is Reid's friend. That's what I told them. That Reid was bringing a friend."
Reid's friend.
The words land but they don't connect. Not right away. It's like my brain can't process that shit.
"I was going to tell them," she says, faster now, filling the silence. "I've been trying to find the right time, but with their faith, their community, everything they believe — I kept trying to figure out the right way to—"
My chest locks up. The air in the room goes thin.
I bought a linen shirt. I stood in a fucking fitting room and let her pick out clothes so I’d look right for her father.
"Every time I asked about your parents," I say. My voice is completely flat. "Every time I brought up how they'd handle this. You said it would be fine."
She flinches.
"You said it'll be fine, Blake. You said that. Multiple times."
"I know—"
"Were you ever planning to tell them?"
"Yes. In person. I want to tell them face to face, with you there so they can see—"
"So I show up. And for how long am I Reid's friend?" My jaw aches from how hard my teeth are locked together. Reid's friend. Back in the box. Back on the outside.
"A few days. Until I find the right—"
"Jesus, Laine." Reid's voice cuts in. Frustrated. Tight. Not the big voice—the real one. "You told me you were going to handle this. You said you had a plan."
The hum of the AC unit is suddenly the loudest thing in the house.
I stop breathing.
You told me you were going to handle this.
A cold, heavy weight drops straight through my stomach. The floor under my boots doesn't feel solid anymore. I stare at the wood grain between my feet. I sanded those boards. I know every groove.
I don't want to look up. If I look up, it's real. Now would be the perfect time to stick my head in the sand and pretend none of this shit is happening.
I wish that were an option.
I turn my head. Slowly.
"You knew."
It's not a question. Reid's face tells me everything — the way his mouth opens and closes, the way his eyes go wide with the realization of what just came out of his mouth.
"Blake—"
"How long?"
"It's not—"
"How long, Reid?"
He doesn't look away. I'll give him that. "A few weeks. She told me she was working on it. That she was going to tell them before we left."
A few weeks. Six, seven weeks of planning this trip. Of me packing a bag and buying a linen shirt and lying in bed at night thinking about shaking her father's hand. And both of them knew. Both of them watched me do all of that knowing I was walking into her parents' house as the fucking friend.
"I should've told you." Reid's voice is low. "I kept thinking she was going to handle it and I wouldn't have to — I fucked up. I know I fucked up."
I look at him. My best friend. My brother in every way that counts. The person I trust more than anyone breathing.
Fucked up feels way too small for this.
"Yeah," I say. "You did."
He takes it. Doesn't argue, doesn't deflect. Just sits there and takes it.
I turn back to Laine. She's crying now. Not sobbing — just tears, quiet ones, slipping down her face.
"I know what I'm asking," she says. "But you don't understand — they're all I have. My parents are my only family. And their entire world is their faith and their ministry and their community, and if I get this wrong—"
"What happens if you get it wrong?"
She stares at me.
"Say it, Laine. What are you actually afraid of?"
"That I lose them." Her voice cracks. "That I tell them and they smile and say they love me and then I become the daughter they pray about.
The one they worry over. The one they love where she is until she comes around.
" She wipes her face with the back of her hand.
"And they never look at me the same way again. "
It lands. I wish it didn't. Being all the way pissed would be easier than this. But I don't have parents. I don't have anyone to lose like that. And if I did — if I had people who loved me the way her parents love her — maybe I'd be just as scared.
But understanding why she did it doesn't make it okay.
"I get it," I say. "I do. But you had weeks. You had weeks to tell me, and instead you and Reid decided for me. You decided what I could handle. You decided what I got to know about my own fucking life."
"That's not—" Reid starts.
"I've been nothing, Laine." My voice is steady but what's underneath it isn't. I thought I understood pain. I thought that I couldn't hurt worse than I did when I blew everything up.
I was wrong. "I've been the guy on the outside. And you know that. You know that better than anyone because you're the one who told me I didn't have to be that anymore."
She puts her hand over her mouth.
I stand up. Walk to my duffel, drop in on the bed. Unzip it.
Nobody says anything.
I take the linen shirt off the top. The one she picked out. Smooth the fabric, and set it on the dresser. Then the khakis. The new belt I bought because I don't own a belt that isn't holding up work jeans.
The room is so quiet I can hear Laine breathing.
Toiletry bag. Book. The good sandals Reid talked me into. I'm not a sandals guy. Bare fucking feet aren't really my thing. But I was going to wear them with a smile on my face.
"Blake." Laine's voice is barely there. "What are you doing?"