Chapter 19 #2
And that's the kind of wanting that ruins everything.
"You didn't do anything," I say, and I hate how defensive I sound. "I've been busy. The Victorian mantel in Seattle took a lot longer than I thought it would."
True. But also bullshit.
The mantel took three weeks. I stretched it to five. Because last Tuesday I came home at ten p.m. thinking they'd be asleep, and instead she was curled up on my end of the couch in one of Reid's sweatshirts, reading with her glasses on, and my first thought wasn't that's Reid's girlfriend.
My first thought was there you are.
Like I'd been looking for her. Like she was supposed to be there. On my couch. In my house. Waiting for me.
I stood in the hallway for three full seconds before she noticed me. Three seconds of letting myself have it — the warmth in my chest, the pull, the whole sick fantasy — before I killed it and said goodnight and went straight to the workshop.
I slept on that couch instead. Because I'd rather wake up with a fucked neck and sawdust in my teeth than sit in my own living room and keep pretending I don't want to touch my best friend's girl.
"Okay." She doesn't look convinced. She bites that luscious bottom lip, and I snap my eyes away. "It's just... Reid talks about you constantly. You're his family. I don't want to be the reason that dynamic changes. I don't want to be the wedge."
You're not the wedge. I am.
"Laine," I say, forcing myself to meet her eyes. "Reid is happier than I've seen him in years. Since before Jared died. That's you. You did that."
Her expression softens, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "He makes me happy, too. With him... everything feels different."
"Different how?"
"Like…we just work. We fit in a way that I didn't expect. I finally understand what 'home' is supposed to feel like."
The simple honesty of it twists in my gut. Laine, who grew up living out of suitcases, found her home with Reid. And Reid, who’s been drifting since the war, found his anchor in her. They are perfect. It’s an objective fact.
And still, in the middle of the night, staring up at nothing, I sometimes wish they'd break up. That they decided they were better as friends. That maybe she has feelings for someone else.
Feelings for me.
Then I feel like a piece of shit all the next day. Who the fuck wishes their best friend's girl would pick them instead?
A selfish asshole, that's who.
"You're good for him," I say quietly.
"I hope so." She picks up her tool again, but she doesn't go back to work immediately.
"Reid told me your parents built churches and community centers. New construction."
"Yeah. Cinder block, corrugated tin, mostly. Whatever was cheap and fast."
"So how do you know how to treat eighty-year-old oak?" I ask, gesturing to the trim she successfully saved. "New construction is all speed and framing hammers. This... this is preservation."
She smiles, running a thumb over the wood grain. "We didn't just build new things. A lot of the time, we were in villages that had been there for centuries. Old stone churches in Peru, wooden community halls in Romania. My dad always said the new stuff was easy, but the old stuff had soul."
She looks around the torn-up bathroom, seeing past the debris. "We'd spend weeks trying to shore up a roof beam that was three hundred years old because the community refused to tear it down. You learn pretty quickly that you can't force old buildings. You have to ask them nicely."
I stare at her. You have to ask them nicely.
That's exactly it. That's exactly what I try to tell clients who want to rush a job. You can't bully wood that's been settling for a century. You have to listen to it.
"Your dad sounds like he knows what he's doing," I say.
"He does. He taught me that everything is fixable if you have enough patience." She meets my eyes again, and the air in the room shifts. It gets heavier, tighter. "He also taught me that sometimes the broken parts are what hold the whole thing together."
I swallow hard. My throat feels dry, and it’s not from the drywall dust. Why do I feel like she's in my fucking head?
"Reid showed me the pictures of that mantel you finished," she says softly. "The one you were 'busy' with. It's beautiful, Blake. You have a gift. Seeing the potential in things other people would throw away."
I look down at my hands. They're covered in grime, scarred from years of slips with chisels and saws. "It's just wood."
"Is it?"
No, it's not. And I hate that I disrespected Gramps by even saying that out loud. "It's... keeping the character," I admit, my voice rough. "Stripping away the damage but keeping the history. Making it strong enough to last another hundred years."
"See?" She smiles, and it’s a genuine, soft thing that hits me harder than the rot smell. "Potential."
And suddenly, the bathroom feels too small. The air is too thick with dust and the scent of her shampoo.
I need to get out of here. I need air. But I can't leave, because I'm the one who knows where the shut-off valve is, and I'm the only one who can put this house back together.
"We should finish the demo before Reid gets back," I say, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.
Laine watches me for a second longer, her eyes searching mine, before she nods. "Right. Before the Supervisor returns with more gummy worms."
She turns back to the wall, and I turn back to the pipes, but my hands are shaking. Just a little.
I’m in trouble. I’m in so much goddamn trouble.