Chapter 53
BLAKE
Iwipe my forearm across my forehead and check the level again. Still off. I shim the post, check again. Better.
Behind me, Reid's explaining the rules of soccer to a group of kids who clearly already know the rules of soccer.
"Okay, okay — no, listen. You can't just kick it at my face. There are rules. There are Geneva Conventions about this."
The kids don't care. A girl — maybe eight, missing her front teeth — drills the ball straight into Reid's shin.
"Oh, that's how it is? That's how we're doing this?"
The laughter hits first. Reid's — loud, stupid, full-body. Then the kids, high and shrieking, layered on top. It cuts through the heat and the sawdust and I'm grinning before I know it.
I set the level down. Turn around.
Reid's flat on his back in the dirt. Three kids piled on top of him. The girl with the missing teeth is standing on his stomach like she's conquered a mountain, and Reid's letting her, his arms spread wide, grinning up at the sky like an idiot.
Six months ago he couldn't get off the couch. Couldn't eat. Couldn't look at me without flinching. I did that to him. I took the brightest person I've ever known and —
No. Fuck that shit.
He jumps up and spins the girl around until she screams. A boy grabs his leg and hangs on while Reid drags him through the dirt.
He's okay. He's here and he's laughing.
And yeah, I was part of everything falling apart. But I've been putting in the work, day by day, to make things better. That counts for something.
I pick the level back up.
The post is solid. I move to the next one, pull the tape measure off my belt. Laine's Dad started the framing on the storage addition yesterday and the bones are good. Solid work for a guy his age. Careful cuts. Nothing flashy.
He's a good man. A man I can respect. And the fact that he's looking at me like I'm some kind of problem bothers me a fuck of a lot.
I mark the cut and reach for the saw.
"Blake! Blake, did you see that? She's lethal."
"Working."
"You're always working." Reid appears at my elbow, sweating through his shirt, dirt smeared across his jaw. He grabs my water bottle and drinks half of it before I can snatch it back. "Her name's Sofia. She wants to be a professional soccer player. I told her she already is."
"You tell everyone they already are whatever they want to be."
"Because it's true." He drops onto the sawhorse I'm about to use. "What are we doing here?"
"I'm cutting a header. You're sitting on my sawhorse."
"I meant broadly. Existentially."
"Get off my sawhorse, Reid."
He doesn't move. Tips his head back, squinting at the sun, and finishes my water. I should be annoyed. I'm not. This is just — how it works. How it's always worked. Reid takes up space. I make room. Life is sure as fuck more interesting when he's around, though.
Without him, shit was darker.
I'd rather have the light.
Mary Mitchell comes around the corner with two glasses of iced tea, and a bag over her shoulder. She hands one glass to Reid, who lights up like she's handed him a winning lottery ticket. Then she hands one to me.
"I added a little extra sugar," she says.
I take it. So I've got a bit of a sweet tooth. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Mary," she corrects. Third time today. Then she unpacks some massive sandwiches, and she's gone.
I'd like to think this means she's forgiven us. That she can accept us into Laine's life, but I ain't that lucky. She's just a really nice woman.
"Dude, her sandwiches," Reid says, half reverent. "I don't know what she puts in them. I asked her. She said love and mayonnaise. Blake. I would commit actual crimes for that sandwich."
"It's a sandwich."
"It is not just a sandwich. Don't disrespect the sandwich." It is a really good sandwich. I'm glad she's great at something. Means Laine ate well when she was a kid. Because she wasn't joking, Mary's a shit cook.
"Drink your tea."
He grins at me over the rim. I take a sip of mine and get back to the header.
By noon the sun is brutal. I've got my shirt off and I'm still sweating through everything. My shoulders ache in that deep, good way that means I've been useful. Reid abandoned his shirt two hours ago. He's going to burn. He always burns.
"Put your shirt back on."
"No."
"You're going to look like a lobster by three."
"I'm building a base tan, Blake."
"You don't build a base tan. You go from white to emergency room. Put your shirt on."
He ignores me. Of course he does.
I finish the header and move inside the addition where there's shade. The framing's coming together. David's been out here every morning before we arrive and stays after we leave. Doesn't say much. Works steady. Checks my cuts sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking.
I don't mind. I'd check too.
Reid wanders in with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Hands me one without asking. I didn't realize I was hungry until I smell it.
"Mary?" I ask.
"Love and mayonnaise, baby."
The fact that she's not letting us starve has to mean something, right? She could have poisoned the fucking sandwiches and been done with us days ago.
We eat standing up, leaning against opposite studs. The shade feels like mercy. Quiet for a minute — just chewing and sweat cooling on my skin and the muffled sound of kids outside. Reid's got sawdust in his hair. I don't tell him.
"Sofia asked if we're coming back tomorrow," he says.
"What'd you tell her?"
"Told her I'd be here but you'd probably be too busy being grumpy."
I take another bite. Chew. The sandwich is stupid good.
"I'll be here."
Outside, someone kicks the soccer ball against the building. The rhythm of it — thud, thud, thud — steady against the new framing.
"Come on." Reid balls up the wax paper. "I owe Sofia a rematch."
"I'm not playing soccer."
"You're playing soccer."
"Reid."
"Blake."
Twenty minutes later I'm standing in a dirt field with my boots on, shirt still off, and a kid hanging off each arm while Reid narrates like a sports announcer.
"And Moore makes his move — he's got two defenders, both under four feet tall — the crowd goes wild —"
Sofia steals the ball from between my feet so clean I don't even feel it happen. She scores on a goal made from two plastic chairs and screams like she's won the World Cup.
Reid loses his mind. Picks her up, spins her around. The other kids pile in.
I should go back to the framing. Three hours of good light left and I've got cuts to make and —
A boy tugs on my hand. Little guy, maybe five. Huge brown eyes. He's been hovering at the edge of the game all morning, watching but not joining. I know that kid. I was that kid.
He points at the field. Then at me. Then at the field again.
I crouch down. My knees pop. The boy flinches at the sound, then giggles.
"You want to play?"
He nods. Still holding my hand. His fingers barely wrap around two of mine.
"Okay." I stand up. He doesn't let go. "Okay, come on."
Sofia sees us and immediately starts organizing. She points at the boy, points at her team, points at me. We're hers now, apparently.
The game kicks off again and the boy stays glued to my side.
Doesn't go for the ball. Just runs where I run, stops where I stop.
His hand is hot and sticky in mine and his grip tightens every time a bigger kid cuts close.
I shift without thinking — put myself between him and the traffic.
It's muscle memory, even though there's nothing evil out there waiting to get him.
I pass him the ball. Soft, right to his feet. He freezes. Looks up at me.
"Go ahead."
He kicks it. Goes about four feet. Another kid scoops it up, but the boy turns back to me with his whole face wide open.
"Good." I croak. He's fucking lit up. "That was good."
Reid's doing play-by-play. "And the rookie makes his debut — beautiful touch — the scouts are watching —"
The ball is lobbed our way and the boy kicks again. Harder this time. Still not great. His hand finds mine again after, like it's home base.
A bigger kid barrels past and I tuck the boy behind my leg. He peeks out, grins, darts back onto the field. Comes right back to my hand ten seconds later. The grip loosens and tightens. Loosens and tightens.
Damned if that little hand doesn't feel right in mine.
Sofia scores again. Reid collapses dramatically. The boy pulls me forward and I go. Let him steer. His sneakers are too big for him and he runs with his whole body.
I could do this.
The thought just — arrives. Quiet. No fanfare. I wait for the other voice, the one that always answers back. No you can't. You break things. Get back to the edge.
It doesn't come.
The boy laughs — the kind that shakes his whole small frame — and tugs me toward the ball. The sun is brutal on my shoulders and there's dust in my teeth and his sweaty hand is gripping mine like I'm the safest thing on this field.
I don't go back to the saw. I let myself just…play.
That's when I feel it. Eyes on me. That old prickle at the base of my skull that never really turned off.
I look up.
David is leaning against the corner of the building, arms crossed, thermos in hand. Not working. Not passing by.
Watching.
I don't know how long he's been there. Long enough, from the look on his face. He's not smiling exactly. It's something steadier than that. His eyes move from me to Reid to the kids to my hand where the boy is still hanging on.
My shoulders tighten. Old instinct. What did he see. What does he —
David takes a sip from his thermos. Nods once. Pushes off the wall and walks back toward the addition.
By late in the afternoon, the kids have scattered. The field is empty except for the plastic chairs still sitting crooked in the dirt. Reid's pulling his shirt back on — sunburned, just like I told him — and I'm packing up the saw when David comes around the corner.
He's carrying three bottles of water. Hands one to Reid. One to me. Keeps the third.
"Sit with me a minute."