Chapter 49
LAINE
The van hits a rut and my teeth click together. Carlos laughs from the front seat, says something in Kaqchikel to the kid riding shotgun — his nephew, maybe, or his cousin, or both, because Carlos seems to be related to everyone within a fifty-mile radius.
"Almost there," he says over his shoulder. "Two more minutes. Maybe five. The road is — how do you say — optimistic."
Reid grabs the oh-shit handle as we bounce again. "I think the road is trying to kill us, Carlos."
"No, no. The road loves you. She is just excited."
I laugh. Can't help it. and then I immediately feel guilty.
The air coming through the open windows is cool and thin and smells like pine and woodsmoke and wet earth, and I've been breathing it in since we turned off the highway an hour ago.
The highlands. Green and impossibly steep, clouds sitting in the valleys like cotton stuffed into bowls.
I forgot how beautiful it is up here. We lived hundreds of kilometers away from here for a year when I was eight.
Maybe nine. It all blends together sometimes. .
I've messed everything up. I don't deserve to be happy to be here. Not when Blake's hurting because I'm a spineless jerk.
He hasn't said much since Guatemala City. He was fine at the airport — efficient, watchful, steering us through baggage claim like a man clearing a building. But once we got in the van, he went quiet. Not angry quiet. Not shut-down quiet. Just... careful.
He's in the back seat, behind me. I can't see his face without turning around, and I've been trying not to turn around too much because every time I do, Reid notices and gets that look — the one that says I see you worrying and I'm worried that you're worrying.
But I can't not worry. He's pulled away. Just a bit, but it feels like we've been sliced open, and I don't know how to fix it.
That's not true. I do know how to fix it. I have to tell the truth. But clearly, that's been easier said that done.
For months.
Carlos slows down. The trees open up and there it is — the village. A cluster of buildings along a ridge, tin roofs catching the late afternoon sun. Smoke from cooking fires. A dog trotting across the main road like he has somewhere important to be.
And at the end of the road, standing in front of a low concrete building with a half-finished roof, my parents.
My mom sees the van first. She grabs my dad's arm and points, and even from here I can see her whole body change — shoulders lifting, hand coming up to her mouth.
Fourteen months.
Carlos barely stops before I'm out. The door handle sticks and I yank it and nearly fall into the road and I don't care because my mom is already moving, arms open, that sound she makes — half laugh, half cry — carrying across the dirt.
"Baby. Oh, my baby girl."
She hits me like a wall of warmth and lavender soap —the one luxury she allows herself— and I'm done. Whatever composure I was holding onto just — gone. I bury my face in her shoulder and cry. The stupid, embarrassing kind. The kind I swore I wouldn't do.
"Let me look at you." She pulls back, hands on my face, studying me like she's checking for damage. "You're so beautiful. Have you been sleeping? You look tired."
"Mom, I just flew for eleven hours—"
"You look tired. David, doesn't she look tired?"
My dad is right there. Quieter. He doesn't rush. He waits until Mom releases me and then he pulls me in — one arm around my shoulders, solid and sure, his chin resting on top of my head. He smells like sawdust and sunscreen.
"Hey, ladybug."
God. I haven't heard that in person in fourteen months and it almost breaks me again.
"Hey, Dad."
He holds me for a long time, and for a little while, everything feels like it's going to be okay.
When he lets go, Reid is already there — standing a few feet back, giving us space, but bouncing on his heels because Reid cannot stand still when he's nervous. He's wearing his best I'm charming and harmless smile, the one that makes him look like a golden retriever who just learned a trick.
"Mom, Dad — this is Reid."
Reid steps forward and extends his hand to my dad. "Mr. Mitchell. It's really great to meet you, sir."
My dad takes his hand. Studies him. Reid's smile doesn't waver but I can see his knuckles go white — he's squeezing too hard, overcompensating. Dad holds the handshake for exactly one beat longer than comfortable.
"David," my dad says. "Call me David."
Reid's shoulders drop half an inch. "David. Yes, sir."
My mom doesn't bother with handshakes. She hugs him. Full contact, no warning. Reid freezes for a split second — he wasn't expecting it — then melts into it because that's what Reid does. He hugs back like he means it, and my mom pulls away beaming.
"Oh, he's wonderful," she says to me, like Reid isn't standing right there. "You were right. I can see it."
Reid grins. "I have references, if you need them."
Mom laughs. Dad almost smiles. And for exactly three seconds, everything is perfect.
Then Blake steps out of the van.
He's got his duffel over one shoulder and Reid's in the other hand because of course he does. He sets them both down in the dirt, straightens up, and waits.
Say it. Just say it.
"And this is Blake." My throat tightens. "Our friend Blake."
Our friend.
I watch his jaw clench. Just once. A micro-movement that nobody else would catch — not my mom, not my dad, not Carlos hauling bags out of the back. But I see it. And Reid sees it. And the three seconds of perfect are gone.
"Blake." My mom steps forward, and her smile is there but it's different — a degree cooler, a shade more careful. She shakes his hand instead of hugging him. "It's so nice to meet you. Laine mentioned you'd be joining."
Mentioned. Not told us all about you. Not we've heard so much. Mentioned.
Because what my mom heard, during one tearful phone call seven months ago, was that someone named Blake had hurt her daughter.
That he'd been unkind. That he was tangled up in the worst months of my life.
She doesn't know the details. She doesn't need them.
Mary Mitchell files information and holds it quietly and watches.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Blake says. Polite. Steady.
My dad shakes his hand too. Firm and brief. "Welcome. Glad you could make it."
Blake nods. That's it. No charm offensive. No performance. Just Blake, standing in the dirt in a Guatemalan village, being exactly who he is — which right now is a man trying very hard not to feel like an outsider in a place where I've made him one.
This is my fault. I did this to him.
"Come on," Mom says, hooking her arm through mine. "Let me show you everything. Carlos, can you bring the bags to the house? David, show the boys the path—"
And just like that, we're moving. Mom pulls me toward the main building, talking a mile a minute — the garden, the women's group, the new water filtration system someone donated. Her voice is bright and fast and full of things she's been saving to tell me in person.
I listen. I ask questions. I hug the women who come out to greet me, women I've never met but who know my face from the photos Mom tapes everywhere.
A little girl tugs on my shirt and shows me a gap-toothed smile, and I crouch down and tell her she's beautiful in broken Kaqchikel that makes everyone laugh.
Behind me, Reid is doing what Reid does. He's found the kids. Within ten minutes he's got four of them hanging off him, teaching them some clapping game he definitely made up on the spot. One boy climbs on his back. Reid doesn't miss a beat.
He's so good at this. Making people feel safe. Making himself belong.
Or at least acting like he does.
Blake walks with my dad. A few paces back. Quiet. My dad isn't a talker either, so they move through the village in what looks like comfortable silence but probably isn't — not for Blake. Not today.
I keep losing the thread of what my mom is saying because I'm tracking Blake over her shoulder. Watching him scan the buildings, the construction materials stacked under tarps, the wheelbarrows and shovels leaned against walls.
Then we get to the community center.
It's bigger than I expected — concrete block walls, a corrugated metal roof that's half old and half new. Scaffolding along the east side where the roof repair is happening. Inside, folding chairs, a long table, hand-painted signs in Kaqchikel and Spanish.
"The east section's been giving us trouble," Dad says, and I realize he's talking to Blake. "Carlos thinks water damage. I think it's deeper than that."
Blake's already moved away from the group. He's standing at the base of the east wall, looking up at the support beams where they meet the roofline. His hand comes up and presses against the wood. Pushes. His fingers find a soft spot and dig in slightly.
"It's rot," he says. "You've got moisture getting trapped between the beam and the block. No ventilation." He steps back, eyes tracing the roofline. "How long's this section been up?"
"Six years. Maybe seven."
"The flashing's wrong. Water's been running down behind the metal and pooling on the top plate. It's been rotting from the inside."
Dad looks at him, bushy white eyebrows raised. "You know your stuff."
"I help restore old buildings." Blake's voice is different now. Not louder. Not warmer, exactly. But present in a way he hasn't been all day. "Back home. Historical work. Wood rot's the number one thing I deal with."
"We could use you." Dad turns to Reid and Laine. "Your friend knows more about this in thirty seconds than Carlos and I have figured out in three months."
Your friend.
There it is again. And Blake's jaw does that thing again — the clench, the release — but this time he turns away before I can read the rest of his face. He walks along the wall, running his hand over the wood, and I watch him disappear into the work the way he always does.