Chapter 5 #2
"Donna, you're a saint." He clutches his chest dramatically. "An angel sent from above."
She swats him with her notepad, but she's smiling as she walks away. So he really is a regular. Not just I've been here before regular — she knows his appetite regular.
I've never had that. Not in fourteen countries or ten years of travel nursing.
Yet. You don't have it yet. That's the whole point of staying.
"So," I say, "tell me about your living situation. Do you have roommates, or are you one of those guys with a bachelor pad that's all black leather and beer signs?"
Reid laughs. "Neither, actually. I live with my best friend Blake. We bought a house together a few years ago."
"You bought a house with your best friend?"
"The whole thing. Four level split, three bedrooms on two acres. Blake's got a workshop out back."
I blink. Two guys co-signing a mortgage. That's not grabbing beers on a Friday. That's joint tax implications. That's whose-turn-is-it-to-call-the-plumber levels of commitment.
"How long have you known him?"
"Forever, basically. We served together. After Jared died, Blake and I... needed each other I guess."
Needed each other. He just says it. No flinching. No cough to cover it up. No rush to add some qualifier about it being no big deal. Just drops it on the table like it's obvious. Like it costs him nothing.
Most guys I've dated would rather chew glass than admit they needed another man for anything beyond moving a couch.
"Sounds like you two are close."
"Yeah, we are. He's like a brother to me." Reid grins. "Actually, people joke about it sometimes. We probably spend more time together than most married couples."
"Really?"
"We work on the house together, eat dinner together most nights, share all the bills. Blake's always giving me shit about work, and I'm always telling him to get some sleep because he works too much."
"That does sound pretty domestic."
His grin lights up his whole face. "Right? Sometimes I think we're like an old married couple, except without the benefits."
I laugh. But something snags. Like a hangnail catching on fabric.
The way he talks about Blake. It's not just fondness. There's a whole other frequency underneath it, something warm and lived-in and — yeah.
Huh.
I file that away. Not sure what folder it goes in yet. Maybe the one I keep losing behind the mental filing cabinet.
"What does Blake do?"
"Architectural restoration. He's really good at it — gets clients from all over the country shipping him pieces to work on."
"That sounds really cool. Like, from old buildings and stuff?"
"Fireplace mantels, door trim and those chandelier medallion thingys, mostly.
Intricate woodwork and historic details that need repair or recreation.
" Reid leans forward, waving his hands, the tiredness falling off him.
He's excited. "Right now he's working on this mantel from an 1887 mansion in Boston.
The thing looks like something from Beetlejuice. "
"Wow. That's like... art, almost."
"It really is. Blake gets obsessed with getting every detail historically accurate.
He'll spend hours researching the original construction methods.
" Reid's waving fork nearly takes out the salt shaker.
"I'm talking hours, Laine. I'll come home and he's surrounded by like fifteen books and hasn't eaten since Tuesday.
I have to physically drag food into his workshop or the man would just dissolve. "
The exasperation is layered over something deeper, more protective — it reminds me of how my mom talks about my dad. Can you believe this man? Can you believe I chose this impossible, wonderful person?
Is it a little weird that he's talking about his best friend-slash-roommate like that? Yeah. But it's also kind of adorable.
"Sounds like you two balance each other out. You may be the least grumpy person I've ever met."
His nose wrinkles with his wide grin. "Aw, Laine. It's like you see me." He presses his palms to his chest, sighing dramatically. Then shakes it off. "We do balance each other out. He keeps me from getting too in my head, and I keep him from working himself to death."
The waitress appears with our food — a stack of pancakes so high it actually wobbles as she carries it, and what looks like a mound of bacon on a plate shaped a lot like a beehive.
"Oh my goodness," I say, staring at my plate. "This is insane."
"Yep," he says with a happy cackle. "You'll take half of it home."
Half? No chance. My stomach would have to strech to double to fit that. But I'm sure going to try. I cut into the pancakes and take a bite.
Oh.
Fluffy and sweet and buttery and — I close my eyes and actually groan, which is mortifying, but I can't help it. These pancakes are a religious experience.
"Told you," Reid says, looking smug.
"Don't talk to me. I'm having a moment."
"Take your time. I'll wait."
I take three more bites before I can form words. "Okay. You were right. I doubted the pancakes, and I was wrong."
"I forgive you. But only because you made that sound."
"What sound?"
"That little groan thing. When you took the first bite." He's grinning. "Very flattering."
Oh God. Heat crawls up my neck. "That was involuntary."
"Even better."
I throw a sugar packet at him. He catches it without looking. Of course he does.
"What about you?" he asks, mercifully moving on. "Are you making friends in Oregon?"
"I'm trying. It's harder than I thought.
" I push a piece of pancake through the syrup, dragging it in a slow circle.
"Making friends as an adult is this weird, humiliating process nobody warns you about.
When I was a kid, even moving around all the time, it was easy.
You'd show up and within a day you had a buddy.
The whole application process was 'want to be friends?
' Done. Accepted. No further documentation required. "
"Right? Kids don't overthink it."
"Exactly. Now there's all this unspoken strategy.
Is it too soon to text? Am I being too eager?
Not eager enough? Am I one follow-up away from a restraining order?
" I put my fork down. "I went to a yoga class last week specifically to make friends, and I spent the entire hour trying to figure out if the woman next to me wanted to chat or wanted me to leave her alone.
Turns out she wanted to chat. But I'd already decided she hated me, so I almost bolted without saying a word. "
Reid laughs. "That's the saddest and sweetest thing I've ever heard."
"I know. I'm a disaster." And why did I just tell him that? Why did I just hand him the world's most pathetic anecdote like it was a fun party story?
"I can't relate to that problem. I've had the same best friend since we were teenagers."
"Blake?"
"Yeah. He practically lived at our house growing up. His home situation was..." Something shifts in his face. Not a flinch, exactly. More like a door closing halfway. "Hard. It was hard. So my mom just started setting a place for him at dinner every night."
And there it is. The thing that makes him make sense.
The patience. The way he folds himself into whatever shape a situation needs. He learned it at a table where someone just quietly added a plate. No big speech. No conditions. Just — here, sit down, there's enough.
I know that table. I grew up at that table. So why does hearing about his version of it make me feel gooey?
"Your mom sounds great. And I'm sure Blake was thankful to have you."
"We never talked about it, but looking back, I know he was.
Blake, me, and my brother Jared were inseparable.
We did everything together — played sports, got in trouble, planned our futures.
" Reid's expression goes distant. "Jared enlisted first, right out of high school, so Blake followed him, and then when I finished school, I did too. "
"All three of you?"
"Jared was always the leader. Just the kind of guy you wanted to be around.
So when he decided to join up, we couldn't imagine not going with him.
" He pauses. "Jared convinced me to train as a medic.
Said I had steady hands and that I was smart enough to take care of people.
Said I could do more than be a grunt like him. "
Three teenage boys who thought staying together was the same as staying safe. Sweet and devastating in equal measure.
"I can't really imagine it," I say. "Having that kind of friendship from childhood. Having people who've known you that long."
"You didn't have that? Even with all the moving?"
"I had friends in every country. But they were seasonal.
I'd be inseparable with someone for however long my family was there, and then we'd leave and I'd never see them again.
" The words hit my own ears and I wince.
"God, that sounds depressing. It wasn't depressing.
I just never had a Blake. Someone who stuck. "
Reid looks at me. Steady. Quiet. "You will."
It would be so easy to read more into his words. Too easy. And there's this thing happening—this fluttery, ridiculous thing in my ribs that is so not me. I'm the confident girl. The fun, casual girl. I have always been that girl.
So why does everything feel so loaded this morning? Why am I sitting here dissecting two syllables from a guy I barely know like they're going to be on a final exam?
Get it together, Laine. "That's the plan," I say with my best flirty smile. "We can't all be as lucky as you though."
"Yeah, we were lucky. Even now, Blake and I —" Reid trails off, covering a yawn so big his jaw cracks. "Oh man. Sorry. My body just remembered it's supposed to be unconscious right now." He shakes his head like a dog coming out of water. "I'm fine. Totally fine. Tell me more things. I'm riveted."
"You're barely conscious."
He widens his eyes and leans forward. "I'm riveted."
"Sure you are. You're forgiven. I'm exhausted too." I try to stifle my own yawn and fail completely. Yawning is the most contagious thing on the planet. More contagious than the flu. More contagious than Reid's smile, which is saying something. "But I'm not ready for this to end yet."
"Me neither."
The words hang between us. The diner is busy, there's a low hum of conversation around us, but it still feels like we're in this little bubble, just the two of us.
I like him. Not the cautious, let-me-think-about-it kind.
The stupid, inconvenient, butterflies-in-my-stomach kind that I'm going to have to talk myself down from later.
It's one date, Mitchell. One. Calm down.
"I should probably get you back to your car," Reid says reluctantly. "Before we both fall asleep in this booth."
"Probably." I don't move. Neither does he.
"Just... five more minutes?"
"Five more minutes."
Reid slumps back against the booth, stretching his legs out until his foot bumps mine under the table. He doesn't move it. I don't move mine.
Eventually we do have to leave. Reid pays despite my protests — "You can get the next one," he says, and I really like the idea of the next one — and we walk slowly back toward the hospital parking lot. The sun is fully up. The mountains are glowing. The air smells like wet earth and coffee.
"This was really nice," I say as we reach my car.
"It was." Reid stops beside my driver's door, hands in his pockets. "I'm really glad you said yes."
"I'm really glad you asked."
We're standing close. Close enough that I can count the green flecks in his eyes, see the tiny scar on his chin. He smells like diner coffee and syrup and something underneath that's just him — warm and specific in a way I'm going to be thinking about later.
"Can I see you again?" he asks.
There it is. The question I've half been dreading and half been rehearsing answers to since he sat down in that booth.
This is what I wanted, right? Move to Oregon. Build a life. Stop running. But he's a coworker, sort of. And I barely know him. And the last time I felt this specific cocktail of excitement and terror, I was twenty-four and living in New Zealand with a surfer who didn't own a couch.
But you're not twenty-four anymore. And he owns a whole freaking house. This is not the same.
"I'd like that," I say.
"Good." Reid reaches out and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my temple. Light. Deliberate. Like he wanted to touch me and chose the smallest, safest version of it.
Then he leans down and kisses my cheek. Brief. Warm. The press of his lips against my skin radiates outward — down my neck, across my chest, into my hands.
Oh Geez. This is going to be a problem.
"Get some sleep, Laine," he says quietly, opening my car door for me.
"You too."
"No promises. I might just stand here and smile for a while first." He's rocking back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets.
I get in the car. He steps back. In my rearview mirror, he's standing there watching me drive away, one hand half-raised. I'm smiling so hard my face hurts.
Wait. Crap. He didn't ask for my phone number.
I pull into my apartment complex and sit in the car with the engine running.
He didn't ask for my number. I didn't offer it. We spent two hours talking about his brother and my childhood and pancakes and Blake, and neither of us exchanged the one piece of information that would let us actually do this again.
How? How did two functioning adults forget to—
Unless he didn't forget. Unless the whole thing was just a nice end to a long shift and I'm sitting here having feelings about a man who was being friendly—
No. He kissed my cheek. He asked 'can I see you again'. He tucked my hair behind my ear.
But he didn't ask for my number.
He knows where I work. He knows my name. He could find me. That's not weird, right?
Or I could find him. I could ask Joyce—
No. Go inside. Sleep. He'll find you or he won't.
I grab my bag. Walk inside. Check on my fiddle leaf fig.
"He didn't ask for my number," I tell it, because I have to tell somebody. Okay, not a somebody. A something.
Still counts.