Chapter 49 #2
"He's incredible," Reid says. Too bright. Too fast. "You should see his workshop back home. He built Laine's desk. Custom. From scratch."
"And our bed frame," I add, and immediately want to die. "The — a bed frame. For the house."
Mom gives me a look. Not suspicious. Just... curious. I smile and change the subject to the garden.
The house is small. Two rooms — a front room with a loveseat, a table, two chairs, and a back room with a bed. Clean. Simple. Hand-woven blankets folded at the foot of the bed, a vase of wildflowers on the table that my mom definitely put there.
"Miguel's away visiting family in Quetzaltenango," Mom explains. "He offered it while he's gone. Wasn't that kind?"
"So kind," I say.
"There's fresh water in the jug, and I put extra blankets in the chest. It gets cold at night — the altitude." She looks at me and Reid. "Plenty of room for two."
For two.
"Blake should stay here too," I say. "With us."
Mom's eyebrows lift slightly. "There's only the one bed, sweetheart. Carlos has a spare room — he offered. Blake would have his own space."
"He's more comfortable with us. He doesn't really know anyone here yet. Right, Reid?"
"Yeah, absolutely." Reid nods. "Blake's not great with new places. Military thing."
It's not a lie. It's not the truth either.
Mom looks between us. I can see her trying to make the math work — why wouldn't a young couple want privacy? Why would they want a third person sleeping in their living room?
"Well," she says finally. "If you're sure. There's extra bedding in the chest."
"We're sure. Thanks, Mom."
She kisses my cheek. Squeezes my hand. Leaves.
The door closes and the three of us stand there, looking at the space. The loveseat is tiny — more of a bench with ambitions. Blake's already measuring it with his eyes, and I know what he's calculating because I can see the answer on his face. He won't fit. Not even close.
He drops his duffel by the wall. Tests the loveseat anyway. Sits. Lies down. His legs hang off the end by at least a foot.
"That's not happening," Reid says.
"It's fine."
"Your knees are in a different zip code, Blake."
"I said it's fine."
He doesn't mean it. He's already sitting back up, rubbing his face, scanning the room for another option.
The floor. He's going to sleep on the floor.
He's in a house with the two people who love him most in the world and he's planning to sleep on the floor alone because that's where he thinks he belongs right now.
No.
I go to the back room. Grab the mattress.
"Laine, what are you—"
I drag it off the bed frame. It's heavier than I expected — thick, dense cotton, not a spring mattress. I wrestle it through the doorway.
"Help me," I say to Reid.
He doesn't ask questions. Grabs the other end. We pull it into the front room and drop it in the only open floor space — right in the middle. It takes up almost everything.
Blake watches from the loveseat. Doesn't argue. Doesn't help. Just watches.
I go back for the blankets. The pillows. Hauling everything out and dumping it on the mattress. Reid arranges things — badly, but he arranges them.
"Cozy," he says, looking at the mattress taking up the entire floor. "Very... refugee chic."
"Shut up and get a pillow."
"I'm just saying, if Blake and I accidentally touch in the night, I want it on record that I was asleep."
Blake snorts. The smallest sound. But a little tendril of hope unfurls in my chest.
"You'll be over it by the end of the trip," I say.
"Doubtful," Blake mutters.
We brush our teeth in the tiny bathroom, one at a time, then change clothes and kill the light.
The mattress is firm and unfamiliar. The blankets smell like cedar and something floral I can't name. Through the thin walls, I can hear the village settling — a dog barking far off, someone's radio playing softly, the wind in the trees.
I'm in the middle. Blake on my left, Reid on my right. Same positions. Different country. Different bed. Same us.
I roll toward Blake. Put my arm across his chest. He doesn't pull away but he doesn't pull me closer either. He's on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
"Hey," I whisper.
"Hey."
"Are you okay?"
Silence. Then: "I will be."
That's not a yes. I press closer. My hand finds the hem of his shirt and I curl my fingers against his stomach, feeling him breathe.
"I'm going to tell them," I say. "Tomorrow I'll start. I'll talk to my mom first. Alone."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Blake."
"I know you do."
But he doesn't sound like he believes me.
And I can't blame him because I've said this before, even if it was only to myself, and it was supposed to be done already.
I was supposed to call. I was supposed to have the conversation.
I was supposed to be brave enough to risk losing my parents so that Blake wouldn't have to be on the outside.
And I wasn't. I wasn't brave enough. And now he's lying on a mattress on a floor in Guatemala, jaw tight.
"Today was hard," I say. "Watching you — when I said our friend. I'm so sorry."
His chest rises and falls under my arm. "I know."
"My dad liked you. At the building site. I could tell."
"He liked what I can do. That's different."
God, Blake. I want to argue but he's not wrong. David Mitchell respects competence. He respects someone who can look at a rotting beam and diagnose the problem in thirty seconds. That's not the same as accepting someone into your family. But I have to believe it's a start.
"Give him a chance," I say. "Give them both a chance. Let them see you."
"I'm right here, Laine. I've been right here all day."
The words are quiet but they land like a door closing. I've been right here. You're the one who made me invisible.
Behind me, Reid shifts. His hand finds my hip, settles there. He's awake. Listening. Choosing not to speak, which might be the smartest thing Reid Garrison has done all day.
"I love you," I say to Blake. "You know that."
"Yeah." A pause. "I know."
The pause kills me. It's my fault it's there.
I hold onto him. Press my face against his shoulder. He smells like travel and dust and underneath it, faintly, sawdust. Always sawdust.
His breathing doesn't settle. I lie there listening to it — the slight catch, the controlled exhale, the way his body won't let go. Reid falls asleep behind me. His hand goes slack on my hip, his breathing deep and even.
Blake stays awake. I stay awake with him.
I don't know how long. An hour. Maybe more. The village goes completely silent outside, just wind and the creak of the roof.
I wait. Not because I think talking will fix anything. Because I don't want him to be alone in this.
Eventually — finally — his breathing changes. Slows. Deepens. His body softens beside me, the tension draining out of his shoulders in increments. He crashes the way he always does, like his body just overrides his brain and pulls the plug.
There you go. Rest.
I press my lips to his shoulder. Close my eyes.
He's right here. Three inches away. And he feels like he's on the other side of the world.
Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow.