Chapter 55
BLAKE
“So Tony tells dispatch we're ten minutes out, but we're actually twenty because he missed the exit. Again. And I'm in the back with this guy who's convinced he's having a heart attack but it's actually a panic attack, and I'm trying to talk him down while Tony's doing a U-turn on a one-way—"
I'm working mineral oil into a walnut cutting board when Laine gets home. Hairline crack running through the grain — most people wouldn't notice, but I can feel it under my thumb. Good piece. Just needs attention.
Reid's on the island. Not at it. On it. Legs swinging, heels thudding the cabinet doors, shoveling dry Cheerios out of a mixing bowl while he recaps his shift.
The front door opens. Keys hit the entryway table — dropped, not set down. Clogs dropping on the hardwood. The twelve-hour-shift I-can't-stand-one-more-minute-in-shoes kick off.
Laine walks into the kitchen and I clock it before she opens her mouth. Her shoulders are up near her ears. Her face is doing the nurse thing — carefully blank. Controlled.
She hasn't used that face on us in months.
My hand stops moving on the cutting board. The oil rag goes still. Something's wrong. Something happened at the hospital, or on the drive home, or — I don't know. But that face isn't nothing. That face is a wall, and Laine doesn't put walls up in this kitchen anymore. Not with us.
She pulls a crumpled Walgreens bag out of her scrub pocket and tosses it onto the island between Reid's thigh and the mixing bowl.
Reid stops chewing. I set my rag down.
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small cardboard box. Reads the front. Turns it over. Reads the back. Turns it sideways and reads the fine print.
"Early Result." Every decibel of bounce gone from his voice. "Two pack."
I'm looking at the box in his hands and my brain just — doesn't connect it. Early result. Two pack. Some kind of medical thing. Vitamin test. Blood sugar. I don't know. My head is still in the grain of the walnut and the oil on my hands and whatever's wrong with Laine's face.
Then it lands.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
I look at Laine.
"My boobs hurt." She crosses her arms over her chest, gripping her own elbows. "I threw up in the staff locker room at two o'clock. And I'm four days late."
My hands find the edge of the sink behind me. I grip it.
Steady.
"But." Reid swallows his mouthful of dry cereal. Sounds like gravel going down. "You're on the pill. You have the alarm. It plays the Imperial March. Every day at six."
"I had strep four weeks ago." Her jaw is tight. "Amoxicillin."
"Right. The antibiotics." Reid slides off the counter.
Feet hit the floor and he's already pacing — three steps to the stove, pivot, three steps to the fridge.
"But we talked about that. You told us the pill might not be reliable.
We switched to condoms. We had a whole grown-up conversation about it. Blake bought the big box."
"From Costco," I say. "We had a plan."
"We had a very responsible plan," Reid agrees. "So how—"
"The washing machine," Laine says. Arms still crossed. "The morning we were all running late. The workshop."
Reid stops pacing. Opens his mouth. Closes it.
I stare at the floor.
We know why. All three of us know why. Because it's her skin and her mouth and the sound she makes and somewhere between the first touch and the part where my brain is supposed to say stop, grab the box — it doesn't. It just doesn't. Fourteen months of finally letting myself have this and my self-control is shit when it comes to them.
Spent years keeping everyone at arm's length and now I can't keep my hands off her long enough to walk to the goddamn nightstand.
"So the plan was solid," Reid says quietly. "We just — deviated."
"It only takes once, Reid." Laine's voice is thin. Not angry. Scared.
That lands in my chest. Laine doesn't sound scared. Laine sounds annoyed, or sarcastic, or clinical, or like she's about to tell you exactly what you did wrong. Scared is new. Scared freaks me the fuck out at the same time as it unglues my feet from the floor.
I let go of the sink. Cross the kitchen to her. Stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back.
"Hey." I put my hands on her shoulders. "We're okay."
"We don't know what it says yet."
"Doesn't matter. We're okay either way."
She stares up at me. Her eyes are wet. Not crying. Getting there.
"If it's positive—" Reid starts.
"Then it's positive," I say. "And we deal with it."
"Right. Yeah. We deal with it." Reid rakes his hands through his hair again. It's standing straight up now. "We should — I mean, if it is — we'd need to tell David and Mary."
Laine makes a sound. Half laugh, half groan. "My mother is going to knit booties. She's going to knit booties and cry and start planning a baptism, and my father is going to realize his unmarried daughter is having a baby with two men she's not married to—"
"So we get married." Reid stops pacing. Points at her. "We get married."
"To who, Reid?" She throws her hands up. "Which one of you? I can't marry both of you. Oregon has opinions about that."
"Okay. Logistics." The pacing resumes. Faster. "I marry you. Blake adopts. No — Blake marries you, better tax bracket. I'll be the—"
"The what?" Laine's voice climbs. "The fun uncle?"
"I was going to say legal guardian—"
"Nobody is marrying anybody right now." I don't raise my voice. Don't need to. They both stop and look at me. "Your parents are going to be fine."
"You don't know that."
"Your mom has been texting me Pinterest links for cribs for three weeks, Laine.
With heart emojis. And little star stickers.
" I pull out my phone, hold it up. Mary Mitchell has my number saved with a smiley face next to it.
She called me 'hon' last Tuesday. Hon. I shake my head, and I can't help the grin.
"That woman did a complete one-eighty on me, thank fuck.
And apparently she has babies on the brain. "
Silence.
Reid blinks. "She texts you?"
"All the time. Last week she sent me a recipe for banana bread and told me to make sure you eat more vegetables." The banana bread was pretty good. Every time I think about her taking a crack at making it, I laugh. My guess it came out black on top and gooey in the middle.
"I eat vegetables."
"You're eating dry Cheerios for dinner."
"Cheerios are oats. Oats are a grain. Grains are—"
"Not vegetables."
Laine's staring at me. "My mother is sending you Pinterest links. For cribs."
"Your mother and I text. We're past the awkward stage. She asks how my back is. I ask about her garden." I keep my thumbs moving across Laine's collarbones. Slow. Steady. "David told me in Guatemala he'd be there when things got heavy. That was the deal. We're not hiding."
"The marriage thing—"
"We'll figure it out. All of it. Paperwork, logistics, whatever." I mean it. "But right now none of that matters until we know what we're dealing with."
She nods. Small. Tight.
"Go pee," I say.
She grabs the box off the island and heads for the bathroom. Reid and I are right behind her.
She turns in the doorway. "I need thirty seconds alone."
"I'm not waiting in the hall." Reid pushes past her, steps into the bathroom, sits on the edge of the tub. Crosses his arms.
I step in behind him. Lean against the door until it clicks shut. Cross my arms.
Laine looks at us. Two grown men taking up every square inch of a bathroom built for one.
"Turn around."
We turn our heads toward the shower tile.
Foil ripping. The click of plastic. A pause that stretches too long. "Sing a song."
"What song?" Most of the music I listen to doesn't have words. I don't know any songs with words.
"Any song. It doesn't matter. I just need it to be loud."
Thank fuck for Reid. He starts howling 'Happy Birthday' at the top of his lungs. Turns out I do know the words to that song.
"Done," she says through the last line, and we stop. My ears are fucking ringing.
I turn back. She's setting a small white stick face-down on the vanity next to the soap dispenser. She pulls out her phone. Opens the timer.
Three minutes.
She hits start.
2:59.
Reid's knee starts bouncing against the side of the tub. He bites his thumbnail. "You'd think with modern technology this would be instant. We put a man on the moon."
"Chemistry takes time," Laine says.
"What if it's defective?"
"It's not defective."
"The bag was crumpled."
"The bag being crumpled doesn't affect the hCG antibody strips, Reid."
"You don't know—"
"I literally do know that. That is exactly the kind of thing I know."
2:12.
"What if it's a false positive? Those happen. What percentage—"
"Less than one percent with this brand."
"But not zero."
"Not zero."
1:45.
He's spiraling out. But he'll be fine. My girl looks on the verge of a panic attack. I push off the door. Step behind Laine. Wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back against my chest. Rest my chin on the top of her head.
My heart is hammering. She can feel it — I know she can, because her hands come up to cover my forearms and she holds on.
Hold it together.
Reid's quiet now. Staring at the stick on the counter. His hands are gripping his knees. The bounce has stopped entirely.
That's what scares me. Not the pacing, not the rambling. When Reid goes still, the thing he's feeling is too big for his body to burn off.
1:03.
"If it's positive," he says. Quiet. No jokes. "This is real. We'd be responsible for a whole person."
"Yeah," I say.
"A tiny person who needs us for everything. Who can't — who depends on us completely."
"That's generally how babies work," Laine says, but her voice is barely there.
0:45.
Reid stands. Steps to the sink. He doesn't look at the stick. He watches the numbers on Laine's phone counting down.
His hand is trembling. Just a slight tremor in his fingers where they grip the edge of the porcelain.
He wants this. I know he wants this. He's wanted it since the day he met her — the noise, the chaos, the house full of people. He wants to fill the space that's been empty since Jared.
And I want—
I don't let myself finish the thought. Not yet. Not until we know.
Laine's pulse is ticking against my forearm. Fast. Too fast.
0:10.
0:05.
0:03.
The timer goes off. Bright, cheerful marimba chime bouncing off the tile.
Nobody moves.
"Okay." Laine reaches out and silences the phone. Her hand is shaking. "Someone look."
Reid swallows. His Adam's apple bobs. He reaches for the stick. His fingers fumble against the plastic.
He flips it over.
He goes still.
The faucet drips once into the basin. Plink.
"Reid." Laine's voice cracks.
He looks up. Hazel eyes wide, glassy, blown completely open. He doesn't say a word. Just turns the stick around and holds it out.
Two pink lines.
Dark. Solid. Unmistakable.
The air goes out of my lungs. All of it. One hard rush that leaves me hollow.
My legs go.
Not dramatic. Not a collapse. They just — stop holding me up. I catch myself on the vanity with one hand, knuckles white against the porcelain, and I slide down until my back hits the cabinet under the sink. The tile is cold through my jeans.
"Blake—" Laine turns, drops to her knees in front of me. Her hands find my face. "Blake. Hey. Look at me."
I'm looking. I can't stop looking. Her eyes are dark and wet and terrified and the only thing I can see.
"I'm okay," I say, but my voice doesn't sound right. Too thin. Too far away. I'm not going to pass out. No fucking way. But fuck my head's floating.
Reid sits down on the floor next to me. Just folds right down, back against the tub, legs stretched out. His eyes are red. He's not crying yet but he's close.
The three of us. Sitting on the bathroom floor.
"So," Reid says. His voice is wrecked. "That's a positive."
"That's a positive," Laine whispers.
Something is building in my chest. Something massive and hot that's pressing against my ribs, trying to crack them open. I can't tell if it's terror or joy or grief or all three at once.
"Laine." My mouth is working ahead of my brain. The words are coming and I can't stop them. "Delivery. You'll be — there's blood. There's—"
"Blake."
"I've seen blood. That's not — I can handle blood. But yours. If something—"
"Hey." Her hands tighten on my face. "Stop."
"I can't—" My chest is heaving. "If something happened to you. If you were in pain and I couldn't—"
"Blake Moore. Look at me."
I look at her.
"I'm a nurse. I will be in excellent medical care. Women do this literally every day. I am healthy and strong and I will be fine."
"The statistics—" Reid starts, and Laine whips her head toward him.
"Do not. Do not start with paramedic statistics right now, Reid Garrison."
"I wasn't going to—"
"You were. I can see you doing the math. Stop it."
"Maternal mortality rates in Oregon are actually very—"
"Reid."
He shuts his mouth. Presses his lips together. His knee is bouncing again.
"Low," he finishes in a whisper. "I was going to say low."
Fuck if that doesn't make me feel a little better.
Laine turns back to me. Her thumbs trace my cheekbones. Her touch is steady even though her hands were shaking thirty seconds ago.
"I'm going to be okay," she says. "The baby is going to be okay. We are going to figure this out the way we figure everything out."
"Badly at first and then better," Reid says from the floor next to me.
Ain't that the fucking truth.
That knot breaks loose in my chest. Not the terror. Something underneath it. Something warm that I've been sitting on since the two pink lines appeared.
I reach up and wrap my hand around Laine's wrist. Pull her forward until her forehead presses against mine.
"I don't know how to do this," I say. And it's the truest thing I've ever said.
I know how to take broken things and make them whole.
I know how to sand and plane and joint and finish.
I don't know how to build something from nothing.
Something brand new. Something that's half her and half one of us and completely, terrifyingly alive.
"Neither do I," she says.
"I took a babysitting course in eighth grade," Reid offers. "So I'm basically the most qualified person here."
Laine laughs. Wet, broken, beautiful.
She sits down on the floor between us. Her back against my chest. Her legs tangled with Reid's. My arms around her waist, hands flat against her stomach.
Reid leans his head against her shoulder. His hand comes down on top of mine.
We sit there. Three people on a bathroom floor with a pee stick on the counter and the whole world rearranging itself around us.
"I'll build a crib," I say. My voice is rough. Thick. "I'll build the best damn crib in the world."
Laine's hand covers mine. Presses it harder against her stomach.