Chapter 9
REID
I've been staring at my phone for ten minutes, and I still haven't typed anything.
Four fucking days.
I've picked it up, put it down, picked it up again. Walked to the kitchen, walked back. Sat on the couch, stood up, sat down again. My leg won't stop bouncing.
I'm a hypocrite. I have all these feelings, all these thoughts about wanting to spend lots of time with the woman, and then I don't reach out.
I'm a fucking pussy.
The cursor blinks in the empty text field, mocking me. Judging me. This tiny blinking line is somehow winning a psychological battle against me. I'm a grown man dammit. This shouldn't be this hard.
Hey, want to grab dinner sometime?
Too casual. Delete.
Free this weekend?
Too vague. Delete.
Had a great time Saturday. When can I see u again?
Too eager? Too desperate? Fuck. Delete.
Hi
Jesus Christ. Delete.
"You gonna actually send something, or just keep staring at that thing like it's gonna bite you?"
I look up to find Blake standing in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, sawdust in his hair like always.
There's a smear of wood stain on his forearm.
He's been in the workshop all morning. And he has that look on his face, the one that says he's been watching me be an idiot for longer than his patience can handle.
"I'm not staring at anything," I say, putting my phone face-down on the couch. Then I grab a pillow and put it on top of the phone for good measure.
"Right." Blake drops into the chair across from me, one eyebrow raised at the pillow situation. "Just like you weren't staring at it last night, or the night before that."
Yeah. I've been doing that. "How's the mantel coming?"
He snorts and takes a sip of his coffee. "Nice try, asshole. But we're talking about why you've been moping around here for four days instead of calling that nurse you can't shut up about."
I haven't been moping. I've been... processing. Thinking. Trying to figure out why every time I go to text Laine, my chest gets tight and my brain starts running through all the ways this could go wrong.
"I'm not moping."
"Reid. You've deep-cleaned all three bathrooms, and yesterday I caught you alphabetizing the fucking spice rack." Blake takes a sip of his coffee. "You only clean when you're avoiding something."
Shit. He's right. I did alphabetize the spice rack. When the hell did we get so much oregano? And why do we have three half-empty bottles of cumin? And what the fuck is cumin for?
"Fuck you. I clean."
"Since when? I've seen your locker at the station. It looks like a bomb went off in a laundry basket."
Since I started thinking about Laine fitting into my life and realizing how much I want that to happen. Since I started imagining her here, in this house, part of my routine. Drinking coffee in the kitchen. Laughing at something stupid I said. Meeting Blake, fitting in with us somehow.
Since I realized I'm falling for her faster than I've ever fallen for anyone, and that scares the hell out of me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, which is the lamest deflection in history and we both know it.
Blake sighs and sets his mug on the coffee table. "Alright, let's try this again. You had a good time with Laine on Saturday."
"Yeah."
"You told me she's smart, funny, good at her job, volunteers her time helping people."
"Yeah." I'm picking at a thread on the couch cushion. Very cool, very casual.
"You like her."
"Yeah."
"So what's the problem?"
I stand up because I can't sit still anymore. Pace to the window. Pace back. Blake watches me with a cool, annoying look on his face. Must be nice to be so unbothered by anything. Asshole.
"There's no problem."
Blake stares at me for a long moment. "You know, for someone who's good at reading people, you're shit at reading yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified," Blake continues like I didn't say anything. "Because for the first time in a long time, you're thinking about letting someone get close enough to matter."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I want to argue with him, tell him he's wrong, but the truth is sitting right there between us.
"That's not..." I start, then stop. "That's not what this is about."
"Isn't it?"
I look toward my phone, still buried under the pillow on the couch. Four days of staring at it, wanting to call her, wanting to see her again, but making excuses to not reach out.
"She's different," I say finally, dropping back onto the couch.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Just... different." I scrub my hands over my face.
"When I'm with her, it doesn't feel like I'm playing a part or going through the motions.
It's not like those other dates where I'm counting down until I can politely leave.
With her, I wanted to stay. I wanted to know everything about her.
I wanted—" I stop, because I'm starting to sound unhinged. "It feels real."
"And that scares you."
"Yeah. It scares me."
Blake’s brow furrows, staring at me like he’s going to pop the top of my head off and root around inside. "This about Tracy?"
My throat gets tight. We don't talk about Tracy. We especially don't talk about the state I was in when Blake found me a few months after she left—after Jared, after everything.
"No. Maybe. I don't know."
"Because that was different. You were—" He stops, shakes his head. "You weren't you. And she couldn't handle it."
"And what if Laine can't either?" There it is. The thing I've been circling for four days.
Blake doesn't answer right away. He's picking at his thumbnail, not looking at me. "I don't know, man. Maybe she can't." He shrugs, a tight motion. "But you're not that guy anymore. And sitting here not calling her isn't going to tell you shit."
He's got me there.
"I just don't want to fuck this up," I say.
"By not calling her? That's a great fucking strategy. That'll win her over for sure."
"No fuckface. By moving too fast. By wanting too much too soon.
" I run my hands through my hair. I'm probably making it stick up in twelve directions, but whatever.
"What if I get attached and then something happens?
What if she decides this isn't what she wants?
What if I'm too much? What if I'm not enough? What if—"
"What if a meteor hits the earth?" Blake interrupts. "What if the sun explodes? What if you spontaneously combust? What if you spend so much time worrying about what could go wrong that you miss out on what could go right?"
"This is different."
"How?"
"Because..." I pause, trying to find the words. "Because I could actually see a future with her. And I haven't felt that way about anyone since..."
"That fucking woman."
"Yeah."
Blake's watched me date casually for years, keeping things light, never getting invested. He's the one who used to give me shit about it, actually. Said I was missing out on something real. Which is rich, considering the man doesn't date at all. Says he's happy being a loner.
Maybe he is. Maybe he's happy in his workshop, with the friends he has left from his old unit. Maybe that's enough for him.
I don't think it's enough for me. Not anymore.
"Reid," he says finally, "do you remember what Jared used to say about taking risks?"
I rub the middle of my chest. I do remember.
Jared had a whole philosophy about it, especially after we enlisted.
He'd get this look on his face—half serious, half that shit-eating grin he always had—and he'd say the biggest risk wasn't dying.
It was not living. Not taking chances on the things that mattered.
Pretty sure he got that shit off a cereal box.
"The only way to guarantee you'll lose is not to play."
"Right. And what would he say if he could see you now, sitting here afraid to call a woman who makes you happy because you might get hurt?"
The truth is, Jared would probably call me a chickenshit. He'd tell me to stop overthinking and start living. He'd remind me that life is short and unpredictable, and that wasting time being afraid is the stupidest thing you can do.
"He'd tell me to quit being an idiot."
"Damn right he would." Blake grins. "And so am I. Call her, Reid. Ask her out. See what happens."
"What if it doesn't work out?"
"Then it doesn't work out, and you deal with it.
But at least you'll know you tried." Blake stands up, grabbing his coffee mug.
He's already mentally back in the workshop—I can tell by the way his eyes go a little distant, probably thinking about whatever joint or finish he's working on. "And Reid?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't just call her. Plan something good. Show her you're serious about this and that you're really fucking sorry for the radio silence." He pauses at the doorway. "You deserve to be happy, man. Stop getting in your own way."
Then he's gone, the back door closing behind him.
I stare at the doorway for a second, then grab my phone from under the pillow. The cursor is still blinking in that empty text field, but this time I know what I want to say.
Hey, it's Reid. I know it's been a few days, but I was wondering if u want to grab dinner with me this weekend. Somewhere nice. Just the two of us
I read it three times. Four times. It's good. It's fine. It's not weird.
Just send it, you coward.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Then I immediately want to throw my phone into the sun.
Then I wait.
And wait.
I set my phone face-down on the couch. Pick it up. Check it. Nothing. Set it down again.
I try to focus on something else. Turn on the TV. Can't focus. Turn it off. Go to the kitchen. Open the fridge. Close the fridge. I'm not even hungry.
Back to the couch. Check the phone. No response. Not even the little dots that show someone's typing.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown man. I've run through gunfire. I've touched people's hearts—literally. I can handle waiting for a text.
I check the phone again.
Nothing.
Maybe she's at work. Maybe she's busy. Maybe she's with Bethany, or in that yoga class she mentioned, or asleep because her schedule is fucking backward.
Or maybe she looked at her phone, saw my name, and thought, Oh, that guy. The one who ignored me for four days and then asked me to dinner like nothing happened.
Or maybe she's showing her friends the text and they're all laughing about how I said "somewhere nice" like I'm a waiter at a mediocre restaurant.
Or maybe she's sitting there staring at my text the same way I was staring at her number, wondering if this is moving too fast.
That last option is probably the healthiest one to believe, so I'm going with that.