Chapter 18
LAINE
"You're going to burn your tongue," Reid says, watching me blow on my coffee. His hand is on my ankle, thumb tracing absent circles on my skin. I don't think he knows he's doing it. It's making me feel all kinds of tingly things.
"I'm willing to risk it. I need caffeine more than I need taste buds."
We're sitting on my couch, feet tangled together, sharing the Sunday paper—like an actual made-from-paper newspaper— like an old married couple.
Reid's got the sports section, I've got the local news, and his other hand keeps finding excuses to touch me — adjusting the blanket over my legs, brushing my hair back, resting on my knee while he reads.
Sunday morning. Couch. Boyfriend. Newspaper. I'm one golden retriever away from a stock photo. And the scary part is how much I like it.
"Listen to this," I say, scanning an article about the new community center downtown. "They're looking for volunteer nurses for health screenings. That sounds right up my alley."
"More volunteering?" Reid grins, setting down his section of the paper to stretch his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, and I get a glimpse of his stomach.
I'm not staring. Much.
"Between Danny's outreach and yoga classes and now this, you're going to be busier than Blake."
Blake. My stomach does that little twist it's been doing every time his name comes up.
He hasn't hung out with us once since trivia night.
Every time Reid mentions inviting him — movie night, dinner, just hanging out — there's always an excuse.
A deadline. A complicated restoration piece. Something about the workshop.
Three weeks of excuses.
I keep going back and forth on it. Some days I'm sure it's me.
That I did something wrong, or said the wrong thing, or just — I don't know.
Existed too loudly in his space. Other days I think maybe this is just how Blake is.
Reid's mentioned he goes through phases where he disappears into work and doesn't surface for weeks.
Maybe this has nothing to do with me at all.
Except it started right around when I showed up. So there's that.
"I like being busy. Besides, it's different when it's something you choose versus something you have to do.
" I curl deeper into the couch cushions, pressing my cold toes against Reid's thigh.
He doesn't flinch, just drops his hand to warm them.
That there is a real man. "When I was traveling, every day was planned out by someone else.
Work schedule, living arrangements, even what equipment I'd be using.
Now I get to decide how I want to spend my time. "
"And you want to spend it giving flu shots to strangers?"
"I want to spend it helping people in a place I care about. There's a difference."
Reid sets down his paper and looks at me with that expression I'm getting used to — like I'm the best thing he's seen all day. It should feel like too much. It kind of does. But I also never want him to stop looking at me like that.
"You really love it here, don't you?"
"I really do." And it comes out easy. No hesitation, no qualifying. "I love having a routine and I—"
My phone starts ringing from the kitchen counter, and I groan. "Ignore it. It's probably Bethany wanting to drag me out somewhere."
But the ringing stops and immediately starts again. That's not good.
Reid's hand stills on my ankle. "Maybe you should get it," he says, and that same awareness is in his eyes. "Might be important."
I untangle myself from him reluctantly, immediately missing his warmth, and pad to the kitchen. The caller ID makes my stomach drop.
Mom.
She never calls twice in a row unless something's wrong. It's almost noon here, which means it's evening where they are. They should be asleep.
Oh God.
"Hey, Mom," I answer, trying to keep my voice light.
"Laine, honey."
Mom's voice is tight. Controlled. The kind of controlled that means she's three seconds from losing it.
I know that voice. Grew up with that voice. It's the same one she used when I was eight and my arm bent the wrong way—all calm words and shaking hands. The "everything is fine" voice. The one that means nothing is fine.
"I need to tell you something about your father."
My knees go soft. I press my free hand flat against the counter.
"What happened?"
"He collapsed at the construction site this afternoon. We've been driving to the hospital for the past few hours — we're almost there. The doctor at the clinic thinks it might be his heart, but we won't know anything for sure until we get there and they can run proper tests."
The kitchen tilts. My fingers go white against the countertop. Reid's on his feet before I even realize he's moved — I hear the paper hit the floor, and then he's right there. Eyes narrow on my face.
"His heart? Mom, what does that mean? Is he okay? Are you okay?"
"Well, we don't even know what's wrong yet. It could be stress, dehydration, maybe just exhaustion. You know how your father pushes himself."
Dehydration. Exhaustion. Or a heart attack. Those are very different things.
"Or it could be a heart attack." My voice cracks on the last word. "Mom, I need to be there."
I'm already moving toward my bedroom, brain shifting into triage mode. Passport — top drawer. Suitcase — hall closet. Clothes for tropical heat. Chargers, adapters, cash — "I'm coming. I'll get on the next flight."
"Honey, you don't need to—"
"Yes, I do. Mom, you can't handle this alone."
Reid appears at my side. His hands find my shoulders, and I let them. Calluses pressing through my t-shirt like little anchors.
"Mom, I love you. Tell Dad I'm coming. I'll call you from the airport."
I hang up and start pacing. Two connections minimum. Seoul or Bangkok. Eighteen hours in the air if I'm lucky, and that's a big if because when am I ever lucky? I need to call Joyce. Figure out coverage. Pack for — what, a week? A month? How do you pack for something like this?
"Laine." That voice. Calm. Steady. The first responder voice. Not the guy who was reading the sports section five minutes ago — the paramedic. "What happened?"
"My dad collapsed. They think it's his heart." The words come out wrong — jagged, too fast, like I'm reading off a list of symptoms instead of talking about my own father. "They're driving him to the hospital now. I have to go."
"Okay." Reid nods, his hands still on my shoulders, thumbs rubbing small circles. No panic. No questions I can't answer yet. Just — okay. "Where are they?"
"Cambodia. They're building a church outside Siem Reap.
" I yank open a dresser drawer, nearly pulling it right off the track.
Underwear. Socks. How many days? How many weeks?
Maybe I should take all the panties. You can never have too many pairs.
"I need to get online, book flights. God, it's going to take forever to get there. "
Reid follows me but doesn't try to stop me. He's right there, though. I can feel him like a hum at my back, all that restless energy radiating off him in waves. His hands open and close at his sides. Reaching without reaching.
I can't think about him right now. I can't let myself think about anything but my dad.
I cross to the closet and yank my suitcase out. The same suitcase I've lived out of for ten years.
There you are. Thought I was done with you.
"Laine, stop for a second."
"I can't stop. I need to pack, I need to call work, I need to—"
"You need to think." Reid's voice is gentle but firm.
He catches my hands — both of them — and pulls them to his chest so I can feel his heartbeat.
Steady. Calm. Everything I'm not right now.
"I know you want to get to them as fast as possible.
But rushing into booking flights when you're panicked isn't going to help anyone. "
He's doing the paramedic thing. Slowing me down so I can breathe. And it's working and I kind of hate that it's working.
"Reid, this is my dad."
"I know. And I know what it feels like to get that call." His eyes are serious, and something moves behind them. Old pain. Carefully boxed up but never gone. Jared. His mom.
He knows what I'm afraid of. He's lived the version where the call doesn't end well.
My hands tighten on his shirt. "Reid..."
"That's why I'm saying slow down for just a minute and talk it out." He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me properly. His heartbeat lands against my cheek. Steady. Calm. How is he always so calm? "Make sure you're making the right decisions. Tell me what your Mom said."
He's not trying to stop me from going. He's not dismissing it or minimizing it. He's just trying to help me think clearly.
"Okay," I say, taking the breath he suggested, then another. "Okay." I give him the rundown — the construction site, the collapse, the clinic doctor's best guess, the hours-long drive to a real hospital. His face fills with sympathy, but he doesn't interrupt.
"What do I do?" My voice breaks and I hate it. "I want to be there. I want to hold his hand and kiss his cheek." A sob shudders out before I can pull it back — raw and ugly and completely beyond my control.
Reid tugs me closer, his hand cradling the back of my head. I bury my face in his neck and just breathe. Everything feels like it's sliding sideways.
Don't fall apart. Not yet. There's too much I don't know.
He rocks me gently, and when my breathing evens out, speaks.
"I'm thinking your mom said they don't know what's wrong yet.
And you said they're almost at the hospital now.
You might be in the air right when they're getting real answers.
" Reid pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands framing my face.
His thumbs brush the tears off my cheeks.
"What if we wait a couple hours? Let them get there, let the doctors examine him, see what they say before you commit to flying halfway around the world? "
"But what if something happens while I'm waiting? What if—"