Chapter 36
BLAKE
The chisel slips for the third time tonight.
I set it down before I do real damage, pressing my palms flat against the workbench.
Focus. It's just wood. It's just work.
But my mind won't stay on the acanthus leaves I'm supposed to be carving. It keeps sliding back to a few hours ago. The kitchen. Laine's eyes flashing when she pushed back on me.
"I'm not perfect, Blake. I leave my dishes in the sink for days."
She'd been so fierce. So pissed off. Listing her flaws like she was building a case against herself, like if she could just prove she was human enough I'd stop—
Stop what?
I pick up the chisel again. Try to focus on the grain, the way the wood wants to move. Restoration is about listening. About patience. About understanding you can't force something to be what it's not.
The chisel slips again.
"Fuck."
I shove back from the bench and pace the length of the workshop. It's past midnight. Should be sleeping. But every time I close my eyes I see her. The way she leaned in to look at the photographs. Her hair. The way her breath caught when I touched her elbow.
She's Reid's.
She's Reid's, and I'm poison. Every time I open my mouth around her I say cruel shit. Shit engineered to make her flinch, make her stop looking at me like that, because if she hates me then at least I know what to do with it. Hate I understand. Hate has a shape.
But she doesn't hate me. She keeps trying. Keeps showing up with groceries and questions about my work and that goddamn warmth in her eyes that makes me want to tell her everything, every ugly thing, just to see if she'd still stay.
And that's the problem. That's the whole fucking problem. I want her to stay.
I slam my palm against the workbench.
Stop.
The mantel stares back at me, patient and silent. Generations of craftsmen touched this wood before me. They understood something I'm failing to grasp—that some things are worth protecting, even when it costs you.
Reid is worth protecting.
I just don't know how much longer I can pay the price.
I've gotten good at timing.
Reid leaves for his shift at six AM, which means I wait until six-fifteen to come inside for coffee. Laine works nights, so she's usually gone by the time I surface. On her days off, she stays at her apartment more often than not.
The system works. Mostly.
"You're avoiding me."
Reid's standing in the kitchen doorway. It's Tuesday, which means he should be at work. How the fuck did I miss his truck in the driveway? I freeze with my hand on the coffee pot.
"Thought you had a shift."
"Switched. Tony has an ultrasound with Angie today." He crosses his arms, leaning against the frame. "You've been weird lately."
Weird. That's one way of putting it. Fucked up would be another. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've eaten dinner in the workshop every night this week. You disappear whenever Laine comes over. And you look like you haven't slept in a month."
I pour my coffee, keeping my back to him. "Big project. Deadline's tight."
"Bullshit."
The word hangs in the air. God dammit, why does he have to push this? Why can't he just be happy and leave me the fuck alone?
"Blake." His voice is softer now. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
I take a sip of coffee. It burns my tongue. Good.
"Nothing's going on. I'm just tired." There's no fucking reason to tell him I'm cracking. That my head is fucked up. He won't hear it anyway. Or maybe he can't. Either way, it won't solve anything.
Reid's quiet for a long moment. I can feel him studying my back, trying to read me the way he's always been able to. We've been through too much together for secrets.
Most secrets.
"Is it the anniversary?" he asks finally. "Jared's coming up. I know that always hits you hard."
The out is right there. Easy. And not even a complete lie.
"Yeah," I say. "Maybe that's it."
"You could have told me. I get it, man. I do."
I turn around. The concern on Reid's face is almost worse than suspicion would be. He's worried about me. He loves me. And I'm standing here letting him believe something that's only half true.
But fuck if I'm going to tell him the rest of the truth. "I know you do."
"So come to dinner tonight. Laine's making that chicken thing you like. The three of us, just hanging out. It'll be good for you."
Another fucking dinner. Would it kill them to go out once in a while? They're fucking hermits. My stomach clenches. "Reid—"
"Please." He steps closer. "She thinks you hate her. She's trying so hard, and you keep shutting her out. I need you two to get along."
She thinks I hate her.
Good. That's what I wanted.
So why does it feel like someone rammed a spike in my chest?
"I don't hate her," I force out through the gravel in my throat.
"Then prove it. Dinner. Tonight."
I should say no. Make up another excuse. Find another way to avoid sitting across from her while Reid watches us with those fucking puppy dog eyes.
But Reid's looking at me like I'm breaking his heart, and I just can’t do it.
"Fine. Dinner."
His face breaks into a grin. "Yeah? Awesome. She'll be so happy." He claps me on the shoulder. "Thanks, man. I know it's been an adjustment, having her around so much. But she's the one, Blake."
The one.
"That's great," I manage. "I'm happy for you."
Reid heads off, and I stand in the kitchen holding coffee I no longer want.
She's the one.
I know she is. That's the whole fucking problem.
I'm fucking drowning.
Laine made the chicken—the one with the crispy skin and lemon that Reid won't shut up about. She's wearing a blue sweater that makes her eyes look stunning. Reid sits between us, oblivious, shoveling food into his mouth and talking about a call from last week.
I eat. I nod. I answer questions in as few words as possible.
"Blake, you want more?" Laine's holding the serving dish out to me, and I have to look at her, have to meet those eyes.
"I'm good."
"You've barely touched your plate."
"Not that hungry."
Reid glances between us, and he finally registers the tension. His fork slows. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," I say.
"Great," Laine says at the same time.
Reid looks at her, then at me. For a second, something flickers across his face—doubt, maybe, or the beginning of a question he doesn't want to ask. Then he shakes it off and launches into another story about Tony and a vending machine and a patient's hand.
And for just a minute, I hate him. He's so sure that if he pushes this hard enough, we'll magically turn into a family. The happy couple plus me.
Why can't he see that this shit isn't working? None of us are happy.
Laine’s laugh rings a little hollow, and he doesn't even hear it. She takes a sip of wine and I watch her throat move when she swallows. I can't keep my fucking eyes off of her.
I'm in hell.
Halfway through Reid's story, he heads to the bathroom. The moment he's out of the room, the air changes. Thickens.
Laine sets down her fork.
"Blake."
I can't look at her. "Yeah?"
She pulls in a deep breath. "I can't believe I have to ask this again. But here it goes. Did I do something wrong?"
The question is quiet. Almost tentative. Nothing like the woman who told me she holds grudges over shampoo. And I fucking hate that I'm the reason for that tentativeness. But I can't change it. It's survival.
"No."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
I make the mistake of meeting her eyes. She's not angry. She's not defensive. She's just—searching. Trying to understand something I can't let her understand.
"I'm looking at you."
She makes this little frustrated growl. "You know what I mean."
I do. That's the problem.
"Laine—"
"You look at me like you're in pain," she says. "Like being in the same room as me physically hurts you."
The words hit like a fist to the chest. I open my mouth—to deny it, to deflect, to say something sharp enough to make her stop seeing me—
Reid walks back in with another bottle of wine.
"Who needs a refill?"
Laine holds out her glass, smile sliding back into place. "Please."
I push back from the table. "Bathroom."
The door closes behind me and I grip the edge of the sink, staring at my own reflection. My knuckles are white. My jaw is clenched so tight it aches.
Like you're in pain.
She sees too much. She's going to figure it out. And when she does—
I splash water on my face. Once. Twice. Until the cold shocks me back into control.
When I return to the table, I don't meet her eyes again for the rest of the night.
It's two AM when I call Hatch.
I don't plan to. I'm sitting in the dark in the workshop, unable to sleep, unable to work, unable to stop hearing Laine's voice in my head. Like you're in pain.
My phone's in my hand before I realize what I'm doing.
He picks up on the second ring. "Moore."
"Did I wake you?"
"I'm up. What's going on?"
I don't answer right away. Don't know why I called. Don't know what I expected him to say.
"Blake."
"Yeah. I'm here."
"You sound like shit."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. What's going on?"
I rub my hand over my face. The workshop smells like sawdust and wood stain, familiar things that usually settle me. Not tonight.
"You remember what you said at the campfire? About Reid's girlfriend?"
"I remember."
"It's getting worse."
Dead silence, long enough that I almost check to see if we’re still connected. "Worse how?"
"I can't be around her. Every time I try, I—" I stop. Start again. "She told me tonight I look at her like I'm in pain."
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing. Reid walked back in."
A heavy sigh. "Goddamn. She's going to figure it out."
"Yeah."
"Does Reid know?"
"No. And he's not going to."
Hatch grunts. "So what's your plan? Keep white-knuckling it until you snap? 'Cause it doesn't sound like that shit's working."
No, it fucking isn't. "I don't have a plan. That's why I'm calling you at two in the goddamn morning, asshole."
Another pause. I can picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his jaw the way he does when he's thinking.
"I've got a job," he says. "Three months, maybe four. Afghanistan. Security consulting for a reconstruction project."
My hand tightens on the phone. "You offering or just talking?"
"I'm offering. Good team. Clear objectives. Could use someone with your skills." He pauses. "Could also use someone who needs to get his head straight."
Three months of desert and work that makes sense. Three months away from the smell of her hair and the sound of her laugh and the slow torture of watching Reid touch her like he has every right to.
Which he does.
And I fucking hate him for it.
It would be so easy to go. But, "I can't just leave."
"Why not?"
"Because Reid—"
"Reid's fine. You said so yourself. He's got the girl, he's got the job. He's not the mess he was after Jared."
"What if something happens while I'm gone?" Maybe he'd be okay. He'd have Laine. Being in love means watching out for each other. But if he goes dark, who's going to take care of her. Who's going to make sure they're both okay in the end?
"Then he deals with it. Like an adult." Hatch's voice hardens. "You're not his father, Blake. You're not responsible for keeping him alive."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand you're using him as an excuse." Fucker doesn't pull any punches. "You'd rather stay there and suffer than take a chance on him being okay without you. That's not loyalty. That's being a fucking martyr."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he's wrong, that Reid needs me, that I can't abandon my post.
But the truth is, I don't know if Reid needs me anymore. He thinks he does, but he's wrong.
At least I hope he is. Because I don't know if I can survive another three months of this.
"When do you need an answer?"
"Wheels up in a month. But I need to know by next Friday."
Friday. Nine days.
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long." His voice softens, just slightly. "The offer's real, Blake. Clean break. Time to get your head right. Sometimes that's what it takes."