Chapter 52
BLAKE
The door closes and she's on me.
Not kissing — not yet. Just fisting my shirt, forehead pressed to my chest, whole body shaking.
"Hey." I grip her arms. "Breathe."
"I can't—"
"You can. Through your nose. Slow."
She tries. Hitches. Reid's behind her — the lock clicks, shoes hit the floor — then his hand lands on her back, wide and steady between her shoulder blades.
"You did it," he says. "It's done."
"Did you see her face—"
"I saw it."
"She looked at me like I was—" Her voice cracks. She pulls back, looks up at me. Face wrecked — eyes swollen, cheeks blotched, tears cutting through firelight grime. "I'm sorry. Blake, I'm so sorry—"
"Laine—"
"For the last two days. For our friend Blake—" Crying harder now, words spilling fast and raw. "For making you sleep on the other side of the room, for making you invisible, for all of it—"
"Stop." I cup her face. Skin hot and damp under my palms. "It's done."
"But I—"
"It's done." I hold her eyes. Need her to hear this. "You did what you had to do. And it's over now." Thumbs brush her cheekbones. "All of it."
She stares at me. Breath still ragged but something shifts behind her eyes — like maybe she's actually hearing me. Like maybe she can let it go.
"Tell me you're real," she whispers.
"I'm real."
"Tell me this is real. That I didn't just blow up my entire family for something—"
"It's real." My hands tighten on her face. "We're real. This doesn't go away."
She kisses me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Kisses me like she's trying to crawl inside my skin, hands dragging up my chest, pulling me down. Teeth and salt and smoke — and the thing I've been keeping locked for two days cracks wide open. Two days of the wrong chair, the wrong side of the room, our friend Blake.
Two days watching Reid touch her while I kept my hands in my pockets. Two days swallowing the word mine every time she laughed at something someone else said.
Reid's hand moves from her back to my arm. Fingers curl around my bicep. Not pulling. Just there.
I'm here. We're here.
"Bed," Laine breathes against my mouth. "Now."
She walks me backward. Reid follows. In the dark I hear him pulling his shirt over his head, fabric hitting the floor.
The backs of my calves hit the mattress — thin, on the floor, barely enough for two let alone three — and I sink down.
Laine is already climbing into my lap, thighs bracketing mine, hands working my buttons.
"Slow down—"
"No." Last button. She pushes the shirt off my shoulders. Her palms flatten against my chest, holding there, feeling my heartbeat. "I'm done being slow. I'm done being careful."
I reach for her — the instinct, always the instinct — check on her, make sure she's okay, make sure this is what she needs—
Reid's hand closes on the back of my neck.
Firm. Grounding.
Stay.
"Let her have this," he says against my ear. His thumb presses into the muscle below my skull. "Let her have you."
Laine pulls her shirt off. Moonlight catches the curve of her shoulders, the soft lines of her. She takes my hands, places them on her hips, holds them there.
"You are not a secret." Her eyes are fierce and wet. "You are not a friend. You are mine."
Something breaks in me.
Not the bad kind. Not the kind I've spent years holding together. The other kind — the wall you built to keep yourself safe turning out to be the thing keeping you trapped.
Reid's hand tightens on my neck. Laine's weight settles into me.
I stop resisting.
The rooster won't shut up. Not that I can blame him for waking me. The grey light's filtering through the window and my body won't let me go back to sleep.
Guatemala. Day three.
The mattress is a disaster — all three of us crammed onto a surface meant for maybe one and a half people, on the floor, shoved against the wall.
I'm flat on my back, legs on the floor. Laine is pressed into my left side, her head on my shoulder, her hand flat over my heart.
Reid is on her other side, one arm thrown across both of us, face buried in her hair.
I don't move.
She called her mother crying and couldn't even speak.
That fucking thought won't get out of my head. When will that shit stop hurting? I'm guessing never. It's never going to be okay that I hurt Laine. But I have to learn to live with it don't I?
At least I do if I want to keep her. Keep them.
And she forgave me for it. Both of them did. I have to let that shit go.
Laine shifts. Burrows closer. In her sleep she makes a small, content sound — this little hum she does when she's warm enough and comfortable — and my throat tightens.
I don't know what I did to get here. But I'm not giving it back.
Reid mumbles something. His arm tightens, pulling Laine closer, and his knuckles brush my ribs.
Even unconscious, the man can't stop touching.
I see another conversation about boundaries in our future.
Not because I actually care, but because it's pretty fucking fun to wind him up and watch him blow.
I let myself lay there and enjoy the peace for half an hour. Then I ease out — slow, careful, replacing my shoulder with the flattest pillow I've ever seen — and get dressed in the early morning light.
There's work to do.
And a disapproving Dad to wear down.
By afternoon, we've found our rhythm.
The community center's northeast corner is gutted — old rafters pulled down, rotten wood hauled out, new lumber measured and cut.
We started at seven. David assigned tasks without looking at me — pointed at the lumber pile, pointed at the corner, said the joists needed to come out before they could re-sheet the roof.
Then he walked to the other end of the building.
He's a missionary, a godly man, but I get the feeling that if he could have knocked me off the face of the planet, he would have.
That was six hours ago. Six hours of sun and sawdust and honest work, and my shoulders are burning and my hands are raw and it feels good.
The kind of good I can never explain to people who don't work with their hands — how the ache settles something inside you.
How measuring, cutting, fitting — the precision of it, the demand for accuracy — leaves no room for the noise.
Out here, things make sense.
Laine's on the scaffolding with me which I don't love, helping me hold a joist in position while I mark the connection point.
Reid is below us, bracing the upright. He's been within arm's reach of me all day — not his usual bouncing, joke-a-minute self.
Quieter. More watchful. If David's anywhere nearby, Reid drifts closer. Not aggressive. Not confrontational.
I see what he's doing. I'm not going to tell him to stop because having someone watching my six feels really fucking good.
"Quarter inch to the left," Laine says.
I check my mark. She's right. I adjust.
"You see that?" I nod at the grain pattern.
"The twist?"
"Yeah. It's going to want to bow when it takes weight."
"So shim the far end." She's already reaching for the wedges. "Dad taught me how to shim a joist before I could ride a bike."
I watch her set the wedge. Confident hands. Sure grip. She reads the wood the way some people read faces — where the grain runs, where it'll split, where it wants to go. Her father taught her that. Or maybe she was born with it.
Either way, it's fucking amazing. Watching her up here, in her element, sawdust in her hair and sunburn across her nose. She's not performing. Not trying to impress anyone. She just knows this stuff — how building works, how joints and weight and angles all fit together. She's magic.
And she chose me.
My jaw locks. I swallow past it and keep working.
Reid's voice floats up. "I want you both to know I understand exactly zero percent of this conversation."
"Just hold the post, Reid."
"I'm holding the post. I've been holding this post. My arms are tired."
"Why don't you try to hold it quieter?"
Reid's mouth drops open. "That's not even a thing, Blake."
Laine snorts. She taps the wedge with the mallet — crisp sound, tight joint. She knows it's good before I confirm it.
She looks up at me with a satisfied little smile. "Good?"
"Good."
She grins. Sawdust and sunburn and she grins at me — open, unguarded — and for a second I forget David Mitchell exists. All I can see is her.
"Next one," she says, moving to the ladder. "Reid, you can let go."
"Oh thank God." He shakes his arms out, rolling his shoulders. "My left deltoid was about to mutiny."
"Drink some water."
"I'm fine—"
"Reid."
He looks up at me. I hold the canteen out over the edge of the scaffolding.
"...Fine." He takes it. Drinks. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You know, the whole 'protective' thing you do is very attractive and also very annoying."
"Not trying to be attractive. Especially to you."
"And yet." He grins up at me, bats his eyes, and takes another drink.
Idiot. Spent all morning hauling lumber he doesn't know how to measure, holding posts he doesn't understand the purpose of, breathing sawdust that's wrecking his lungs — and he hasn't complained once.
Not really. The jokes are the complaints.
The drama is the closest Reid gets to admitting he's uncomfortable.
But he's here. In the heat. Doing work that bores him, that his body isn't trained for, that requires the kind of patience he's not built for. Unless they're someone hurt or bleeding that is. But he's not going anywhere because I'm here. Because Laine is here.
He's so much stronger than he used to be.
He's going to be okay.
Yeah, he'll always be better with us. But for the first time I think Reid would be okay, even if he was on his own.
And it's such a relief I almost tear the fuck up. I don't. Not going to let that happen right now. But one of these days I'm going to tell him how fucking proud I am of him.