Chapter 18 #3
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll be careful for a few weeks and then go right back to pushing themselves too hard." Because that's what Mitchells do. We push until there's nothing left to push against, or we collapse. Whichever comes first. Admirable and stupid in equal measure.
The timer goes off. Reid gets up, checks whatever he's made, ladles something into a bowl. Brings it back with crackers and a glass of water. Sets it all down in front of me like I'm something that might break if he moves too fast.
"Eat," he says, settling back beside me.
I take a spoonful. Canned soup with extra vegetables and what tastes like an entire head of garlic. Warm and uncomplicated.
"This is really good."
"It's just canned soup with extra vegetables. And a truly alarming amount of garlic, because garlic fixes everything." He pauses. "That's not medical advice. Please don't tell my patients I said that."
A snort escapes me. "Your secret's safe with me."
We sit quietly while I eat. His hand on my knee, thumb tracing patterns through the fabric of my pajama pants. Every few minutes his eyes flick to my phone on the table, then back to me. He's waiting too.
"I keep thinking about the time difference," I say. "It's tomorrow there already. Dad collapsed yesterday, our time. It feels like this has been going on forever, but for them it's only been a few hours."
"Time gets weird when you're worried about someone."
"Yeah." I set down my spoon and turn to face him. "Reid, what if I do have to go? What if he needs surgery or long-term care?"
"Then you go. We've been through this."
"But what about your life? Your work? I can't ask you to just put everything on hold—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering." Reid's free hand comes up to cup my cheek. His eyes lock onto mine, and I forget what I was about to say. "Laine, I'm in love with you."
He says it simply. Like it's been true for a while and he's just now getting around to mentioning it.
My brain just — stops. Blank. Nothing. I'm in pajama pants with unwashed hair and snot on my sleeve from crying and this man just told me he loves me in my kitchen on the worst morning of my year.
It's not really a surprise, we both admitted we were falling weeks ago.
But the way he says it now, with no hesitation or doubt, still hits me.
"That means when your world falls apart, I help you put it back together," he continues, like he didn't just rearrange my entire nervous system.
"I make you soup from a can. I book your flights if you need them booked.
I sit here and hold your hand while we wait for news.
" He squeezes my fingers. “And if it comes to it we do the long distance thing and I use every bit of vacation time I have. That's how this works."
Oh.
Oh, this man.
"I've never had that before," I say, my voice a whisper. "Someone who'd stay when things got complicated."
"Well, you have it now. And buckle up baby, because I'm a lot."
Laughing, I lean into his touch. Ten years of handling every crisis by myself. Every scare, every emergency, every middle-of-the-night phone call — just me and my suitcase and whatever grit I could scrape together. And now there's him, and I can't imagine my world without him anymore.
"I love you too," I whisper.
His smile widens. "Of course you do. I'm terrific."
He leans in and kisses me through my laughter. Gentle and sweet. Not a kiss that's going anywhere — just connection. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek, and when we break apart he rests his forehead against mine.
"You're not going to lose me," he says quietly. "No matter what happens with your dad, no matter how long you might be gone, you're not going to lose me."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
My phone buzzes on the table. We both freeze.
My hand shoots out. Heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Please be good. Please.
Arrived at hospital. Dad stable, awake, complaining about the bumpy ride. Doctors running tests now. Will call in few hours with results.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My hands are shaking — but different now. Relief instead of dread. The phone nearly slides out of my grip and Reid catches it, reads the screen, and his whole body uncoils.
"He's okay," I tell him, even though he already read it. I need to say it out loud. "I mean, he's stable. They're running tests. He's complaining about the road."
"That's really good news." Reid pulls me into his arms, and I let myself fall into him. Really fall. The tension I've been holding for the past million hours just leaves. Shoulders drop. Jaw unclenches. Everything shakes loose at once.
"Hey," he murmurs against my hair. "Hey, it's okay. He's okay."
"Yeah." I laugh, and it sounds watery and ridiculous. "Dad only complains when he's feeling well enough to be annoyed. If he was quiet, I'd be worried."
"See? Complaining is a good sign. Very healthy." Reid's hand strokes my back. "I complain all the time. I'm basically immortal at this point."
Don't laugh. Don't encourage him.
A snort escapes me anyway. "That's not how that works."
"Pretty sure it is. Tony complains constantly and he's survived some truly stupid decisions. There's definitely a correlation."
"I'm still scared," I admit.
"Of course you are. But he's getting help now." His hand moves in slow circles on my back. "And whatever happens next, we'll handle it together."
Sitting here in Reid's arms — his heartbeat steady under my cheek, his hand on my back, the garlic soup cooling on the table — I realize I have something I've never had before. Someone who'll sit with me through the scary hours. Make me soup. Hold me while I wait for news.
Someone who loves me enough to let me go, and who I trust enough to believe he'll be here when I come back.
But I also have something to lose now. And that's new. Leaving — even for family — would cost me something.
I don't know how to hold all of it yet. The loyalty to my parents, the life I'm building, the man whose heartbeat is keeping time under my cheek.
But I'm figuring it out. I think. Maybe.
My head hurts.
"Reid?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm finally understanding what it means to have roots."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And it's terrifying."
It's his turn to snort. "Yeah, it fucking is."