Chapter 40
LAINE
"So, let me get this straight," Jamila says, her manicured nail tapping a rhythmic click-click-click against the stem of her martini glass. "He told his roommate — his male roommate — about things you told him in private?"
"Yeah. I told Reid things that were private," I say, stirring the ice in my tea until it clinks against the glass. "I guess Reid told Blake when he was feeling vulnerable. To get advice."
I look down at my drink. I shouldn't be here.
I should be in bed. I told Reid I was exhausted — that I was going straight to sleep.
It was a lie, and I felt horrible about it the second I said it.
But I needed to breathe. After he left my apartment an hour ago, the silence just sat on me.
I couldn't lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering what Reid and Blake were saying about me.
So I texted Jamila. Emergency drinks. Murphy's. Please.
And now, instead of sleeping, I'm dissecting my relationship under the fluorescent lights of a sports bar.
"That's not advice, Laine. That's intel.
" Jamila's eyes narrow. She's wearing a sharp blazer that probably costs more than my car, and right now she looks like she wants to file a class-action lawsuit against Reid Garrison.
"You don't hand over your girlfriend's emotional baggage to your best friend so he can use it as ammo. "
Exactly what I think. But that loyal part of me still can't help defending him. "Reid didn't know Blake would use it."
"Reid is thirty-five, not fifteen. He should know better." Jamila sighs, her expression softening just a fraction. She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. "Honey, you aren't dating a man. You're dating a committee. And the chairman of the board just vetoed you."
I look down at my salad.
Dating a committee.
That's the thing that lands. Because I thought I was building a life with Reid. Something just for us. But apparently there's a third vote in every decision. A third presence in the bed.
"I’m just... I’m tired, T," I admit, the fight draining out of me. "I love him. When it's just us, it's magic. But it's never just us. Blake is always there. Even when he's not in the room, he's in Reid's head."
"And now he's in yours," Jamila points out.
A roar of laughter erupts from the pool tables in the back.
I look over and spot Jamila's wife Kerry holding court. She’s in her element—flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows, pool cue resting on her shoulder like a scepter.
She’s high-fiving a guy in a biker jacket while simultaneously winking at the bartender to send over another round.
She is the Mayor of Murphy’s. I don't think she pays for drinks half the time; people just buy them for the privilege of being in her orbit.
She catches my eye across the room, beams, and points at our table. Coming in hot.
A minute later she slides into the booth next to Jamila, smelling like chalk dust and expensive cologne. She kisses Jamila on the temple—casual, possessive, easy—and sets a bowl of pretzels down in front of me.
"You look like you need carbs, Mitchell," Kerry says, stealing a sip of Jamila's martini. "And maybe a hug. But eat the pretzel first."
I smile, but it feels wobbly. "Thanks, Kerry."
I watch them for a second. The way Kerry’s arm automatically drapes over the back of the booth behind Jamila.
The way Jamila leans into it without even thinking.
They are so different—Jamila is all sharp edges and corporate strategy, Kerry is soft flannel and loud laughter, but together they look like they could hold off an army. They're a fortress.
That’s what I wanted. I wanted to be part of a fortress.
"How's the game?" Jamila asks, wiping a smudge of blue chalk off Kerry's cheek.
"Crushing it. Gary thinks he can bank shot. Gary is wrong." Kerry turns her focus to me, her grin fading into that warm, steady look that makes me feel like I could tell her anything, and she would never share it. "So? Did we decide if we're burying the boyfriend or just maiming him?"
"We've downgraded to justifiable homicide," Jamila says dryly. "He's leaking state secrets to the enemy."
Kerry winces. "Oof. The roommate again?"
"The roommate," I confirm. Blake is more than that, I know it, but right now, I'm feeling a little petty and 'the roommate' gives me a tiny burst of satisfaction when I say it. If only it were that simple though. You can kick out a roommate.
It doesn't escape me that Jamila told Kerry about my romantic life, and about Blake. But it doesn't bug me because Kerry is Jamila's person. Of course she'd share.
Reid shared with Blake. Blake is Reid's person.
Not me.
"You know," Kerry says, tilting her head. "I'm usually a 'more the merrier' kind of gal. But this guy sounds like a thundercloud in a flannel shirt. If he can't get on board with you, he's either blind or stupid."
"He's not stupid," I say. "He's just..."
"Hostile?" Jamila suggests.
"Broken," I say. The word surprises me, but as soon as it's out, I know it's true.
The bell above the door chimes. Kerry, out of habit, glances up to see who's entering her domain. Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Speaking of thunderclouds," she murmurs. "Whoa. Tall, dark, and misery at twelve o'clock."
I freeze. I don't even turn my head yet, and I already know. Something in the air just shifts, the way a room recalibrates when a certain kind of weight walks into it. I look over my shoulder slowly, like I'm expecting the clown from it to be standing behind me.
Nope. Not a killer clown. Worse.
"Oh my god, Blake."
He's walking toward the bar, not looking at the tables.
He looks... God. He's still in work clothes, covered in fine sawdust like he walked straight out of the shop without stopping.
His shoulders are hunched, jaw set so tight I can see the muscle from here.
He looks like a man marching to a funeral.
He sits at the far end of the bar, keeping his back to the room. Doesn't scan the crowd. Doesn't look for anyone. Just stares at the bottles lined up behind the bar like he wants to break every single one.
"You're shitting me? That's him?" Jamila's voice drops to a whisper.
"Yeah."
"He's handsome," Kerry notes objectively. "In a 'I might punch a wall' kind of way. But he looks like he hasn't slept in a week."
"He looks worse than that," I whisper.
My nurse brain kicks in before the rest of me catches up. I can't help it. I watch the way he lifts his hand to signal the bartender.
There's a tremor.
Slight, but rhythmic. His hand is shaking.
That's not just anger. That's adrenaline crashing. Or exhaustion. Or grief.
"Ignore him," Jamila says, her voice sharp with protection. "Laine, turn around. Let's finish up and go to that dessert place on 4th. You don't need this."
I should. I really, really should.
But I can't take my eyes off him. Reid was going to him. He made is sound so easy. I'll fix this. I'll talk to him.
And then I look at Blake, sitting there like a jagged rock that refuses to be moved.
If I leave now, I'm just delaying the inevitable. I need to know. I need to understand what I'm fighting against. Is he just a bully? Or is he drowning?
"I'll be right back," I say, sliding out of the booth.
"Laine, don't," Jamila warns, reaching for my arm. "Don't poke the bear."
"I'm not going to poke him," I say, smoothing my shirt. "I'm just going to get a diagnosis."
I walk over to the bar before I can lose my nerve. The sawdust smell hits me before I even reach him—pine and old sweat.
I slide onto the empty stool beside him.
"Blake."
He doesn't turn around. "Laine."
He doesn't sound surprised. He sounds tired. Bone deep tired.
"Can we talk?"
"I'm watching the game."
The TV above the bar is playing a rerun of a fishing show. "No, you're not. You're hiding."
That gets a reaction. His jaw tightens. He signals the bartender for another drink. His glass is already empty.
"I know you don't like me," I start, keeping my voice low so the bartender won't hear. "I'm not here to argue about that. But Reid... he's twisting himself into knots trying to fix this. Trying to fix us."
Blake stares at his whiskey. "Reid's a fixer. It's what he does."
"He shouldn't have to fix his best friend attacking his girlfriend."
Blake finally looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with red. "I didn't attack you. I told you the truth. You're a flight risk. You don't know how to stay."
"And you do?" I counter. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's about two seconds away from running."
He flinches. It's small, but I see it.
"You don't know me," he says harshly. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're hurting him," I say. "I know you're making him choose. And that's not fair, Blake. If you love him—as a brother, as a friend, whatever—you shouldn't be making him miserable."
Blake's hand tightens around his glass until his knuckles turn white. The tremor is back, worse this time.
"I'm not making him choose," he says, his voice rough, barely audible over the jukebox. "I tried to leave. Tonight."
I blink. "What?"
"I tried to take a contract. Overseas. To give you two space." He takes a long swallow of whiskey, grimacing as it goes down. "Reid begged me to stay. Said he couldn't handle it if I left."
The air leaves my lungs.
Reid begged him to stay.
I thought Reid was fighting for me. I thought he was drawing boundaries, telling Blake to back off. But when Blake offered him an out—a way to clear the air, to give us a chance—Reid panicked.
He chose Blake.
Oh my god.
He will always choose Blake.
"He needs you," I say softly, the realization settling over me like a heavy blanket. This isn't going to get better. Reid is too attached to Blake. He needs him too much. And Blake is who he is. He's not going to change.
There's no good choice here. If I want Reid, I'm going to have to do everything in my power to stay away from Blake.
It's impossible. How could I live like that?
"He thinks he does," Blake mutters.
I study his profile. The pain etched into the lines around his eyes. The desperation in the way he grips that glass like it's the only thing holding him to the earth.
"Blake," I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. "Are you in love with him?"
His head snaps toward me. His eyes go wide, genuine shock replacing the brooding. For a second, he looks like I just spoke Greek.
Then, he lets out a short, bitter laugh. "You're fucking insane."
I guess that's a no. Which is a little disappointing. It would make so much more sense if he were secretly in love with Reid. "Then what is it?" I ask. "Why is this so intense? Why can't you let him be happy?"
"Because he's not happy!" Blake hisses, leaning in close.
"He thinks he is. He thinks he can play house with you and everything will be fine.
But he's fragile, Laine. He's barely holding it together.
And when you leave—because you will leave—he's going to shatter.
And I'm the one who has to sweep up the pieces. "
"I wasn't going to leave," I whisper.
"Everyone leaves," he says. It sounds like a fact. Like gravity.
He turns back to his drink. "Just... stay away from me, Laine. Please. Just stay away."
"You live in the same house."
"I know." He closes his eyes for a second. "I know."
He sounds defeated. He sounds like a man who is trapped in a cage and has stopped fighting the bars.
I slide off the stool. My legs feel unsteady.
"Okay," I say quietly.
He doesn't look at me. "Go back to your friends, Laine."
I walk back to the booth. Jamila and Kerry are watching me, their expressions tight with worry.
"Well?" Jamila asks as I slide in. "What did he say?"
I grab my purse. I feel cold all over.
"He said everyone leaves," I say.
"What a jerk," Kerry says, shaking her head.
"No," I say. "He's not just a jerk. He's... he's the other half of Reid's heart. And there's no room for me in there."
"Laine..." Jamila reaches for me, but I'm already standing up.
"I have to go," I say. "I have to make a call."
"Laine, don't do anything rash," Jamila says.
"It's not rash," I tell her, and for the first time in a week, my mind feels clear. Sad, but clear. "It's the only thing left to do."
I walk out of the bar, into the cool night air. I don't go to my car. I walk down the block to a quiet spot under a streetlight.
I pull out my phone. I dial Reid.
It rings once. Twice.
"Hey, beautiful," Reid answers, his voice warm and hopeful. "Everything okay?"
I close my eyes. I can hear the smile in his voice. I'm about to break his heart. But if I don't do it now, Blake is right. We'll just drag this out until we all shatter.
"Reid," I say, my voice shaking. "We need to talk."