Chapter 52 #2
Laine's at the lumber pile, sorting through boards. Running her hand along the grain — checking for defects, feeling for moisture. She pulls one, holds it up so I can see.
This one?
I nod.
She brings it to the scaffolding. Reid steps in to help her lift and for a second we're all three moving together — Laine tilts her end, I adjust mine, Reid braces the middle. No one speaks. No one needs to. We know what we're doing by now. The board goes up and into position smoothly.
"You two are kind of scary when you do that," Reid says.
"Do what?" I ask, glancing at him.
"The mind-reading thing. The construction telepathy." He waves between me and Laine. "I feel like I should be wearing a hard hat and staying out of the way."
"You should definitely be wearing a hard hat," Laine says.
"There are no hard hats."
"Then stay out of the way."
"I am helping—"
"You're helping beautifully," she says, and kisses his shoulder as she passes him on the platform, giving me a little glare. "Hold this, Baby."
He holds it. Whatever this is. He doesn't ask.
Movement at the far end of the building. David. He's stopped working on the junction box and he's watching us.
Not watching Laine.
Watching the three of us.
I hold his gaze for a second. Then I look away. Back to the joint. Back to the wood. He can watch all he wants. All he's going to see is how much we love Laine.
There's no telling if he's going to be okay with us. But I'm going to do everything I fucking can to show him the kind of man I am.
We work for another hour. Laine and I fall into a rhythm that doesn't need direction — she anticipates the next shim, the next wedge, the next measurement.
She knows when a joint is tight enough by the sound the mallet makes.
I find myself leaning into it — the ease of working beside someone who speaks the same language.
At home every project taught us something new about how the other one thinks.
Reid's value is different. He's the one who notices when I haven't stopped in two hours.
Who shows up at my elbow with the canteen I didn't ask for and stands there until I drink.
Who drops into the shade and says "Five minutes" like it's his idea, making it easy for me to follow instead of pushing through because stopping feels like weakness.
Two different kinds of holding. I need both of them, and I'm not afraid to admit it.
Not anymore.
I'm setting a brace pin when I see Reid lean too far on the scaffolding. Reaching for a chisel that's slid across the platform. His weight shifts. The board under his foot flexes.
"Reid." Sharp. Out before I've thought about it.
He freezes, thank fuck.
"Back foot toward me. Shift your weight."
He does. The board settles.
"See?" He scoots back to center. "This is why you're here."
"Because you have no self-preservation instinct?"
"I was going to say 'because you care about me,' but sure, let's go with yours." He waves the chisel. "Got it, though."
"Next time ask me to hand it to you."
"Where's the fun in that?"
I glare at him. My hands are shaking. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice.
It's not the heat or the fatigue. It's the image — Reid falling six feet onto concrete. The sound his body would make. The way his face would look when—
Stop.
I drive the pin in. Focus on the impact of the hammer. The clean bite of wood on wood.
He's fine. He's right there. He's fine.
Footsteps on gravel. I look up.
Laine's mom is there, holding a tray covered with a cloth. Blue dress, practical, hair pulled back. She looks like she hasn't slept. I fucking hate that she's hurting, but I don't get it. Laine's fucking incredible. There's no reason to stop loving her. So I don't get where she's coming from.
She looks at me. I brace for it. I wouldn't blame her if she tore a strip off of me. Hell, she can do her worst if it means that she's a little softer with Laine.
"Lunch," she says. Sets the tray on the work table. "Senora Reyes made tamales." A beat. "I didn't cook, so it's safe."
Reid's laugh is softer than usual. "Appreciate the warning, Mrs. Mitchell."
"Mary," she corrects. Automatic. Then she catches herself — like she's not sure the warmth is still authorized — and smooths the cloth on the tray without looking at any of us too long.
Laine climbs down from the scaffolding. Wipes her hands on her jeans. "Thanks, Mom."
Mary looks at her daughter. Sawdust in her hair, dirt-streaked, sunburned. I bet this is what she looked like when she was a kid. Is she wondering where she went wrong with Laine? How she ended up with a daughter that would choose two men instead of something 'normal'.
"You always did like getting your hands dirty," Mary says quietly.
"Learned from you."
Mary's mouth tightens. She touches Laine's arm — fingertips, barely there — then turns and walks back toward the houses.
Laine watches her go. I see the ache move through her — the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her hand opens and closes.
Reid loops his arm around her waist. "She made a joke. That's progress."
"She made a joke to be polite."
"She made a joke because she's trying. That's different." He squeezes her side. "Eat a tamale."
"I'm not hung—"
"Have you ever been sad while eating a tamale? No. Impossible. Science."
"That's not science, Reid."
"Emotional science. Emerging field. I'm a pioneer." He steers her toward the table. "Sit down. Eat."
She looks at him. And despite everything — the exhaustion, the fear, the rawness — she smiles. Small. Real.
There she is.
We eat in the shade of the building. Laine between us, her knee pressed against mine, Reid's arm across the back of her chair.
We talk about the joists, the tin sheets, and whether the corner bracing will hold through the rainy season.
And we talk about home, and argue over paint colors for our bedroom. We plan for the future.
"The fourth joist is going to need extra bracing," Laine says, peeling the husk off her second tamale. "That wood's softer than the rest."
"I know. I was thinking a sister joist."
"That's a lot of extra weight on the post."
"Not if we add a mid-span support."
Reid looks between us. "I understood 'weight.' That's the only word I got."
"You don't need to understand it," Laine says. "You need to hold things when we tell you to hold things and look pretty."
He gasps and presses a hand to his chest. "I am not some piece of meat. I'm a respected professional."
"And it's very impressive. Hold this." She hands him the tray.
He takes it. Looks at me. "I'm being oppressed."
"You're being useful. Different thing."
"Is it, though?"
I watch them. Reid stealing the last tamale off the tray. Laine swatting his hand and missing. Reid talking with his mouth full about how tamales should be classified as a controlled substance. Laine telling him to chew. Reid chewing dramatically, cheeks puffed, eyes wide.
If David Mitchell never says another word to me, I have this.
If Mary never thaws, never comes around, never sees past the theology to the truth underneath — I still have a woman who's good through and through and a man that will have my back, even if he doesn't understand what the fuck is happening half the time.
That's enough. That's more than enough.
When we go back to work, David is at the northeast corner.
He's examining the joists we set — running his hand along the joint, checking the shims. He crouches down, sights along the beam the way a carpenter does — one eye closed, reading the line. Checking if it's true.
He stands. Moves to the next joist. Checks that one too.
After a minute, he walks over to where I'm standing. Doesn't look at me. Looks at the corner.
"The grain on that fourth joist." He nods toward it. "Wants to twist."
"I know. Shimmed the far end. Laine and I were talking about sistering it."
He's quiet. Then: "Good work."
He walks away.
Two words. That's probably all I'm going to get for a long time.
Good work. Not I accept you. Not I understand. Not welcome to the family.
But for now, it's enough.
Across the site, Laine is on the scaffolding measuring the next section. Reid is below her, holding the tape end, squinting up with his hand shading his eyes.
"Fourteen and three-eighths," Laine calls down.
"Fourteen and three-quarters."
"Three-eighths, Reid."
"That's what I said."
"It literally isn't."
"Are you sure? Because I feel like—"
She groans, but there's a giggle under it. He's fucking ridiculous, and he's doing it on purpose. Making her laugh. "Read me the number on the tape."
A pause. "...Three-eighths."
"Thank you."
"In my defense, those little lines are very small."
She pushes the hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. Looks over at me across the dusty, half-built space, smiling that soft smile.
You okay?
I nod.
She holds my gaze. One second. Two.
Yeah. I'm okay.