Chapter 44
LAINE
My suitcase is open on the bed.
Just sitting there like a bad joke. The empty black cavern, the zippers waiting. It's exactly what Blake accused me of—being a flight risk. Being the girl who packs her life into two bags the second things get messy.
I stare at it. Am I really going to let a man chase me away from the life I've worked so hard to build?
Not a chance.
I slam the lid shut. It makes a satisfying thud, but it doesn't make me feel any better. I am not running. I might be single, I might be furious, and I might be currently spiraling, but I am not packing that bag.
I walk to the living room window because I need to look at something that isn't my own failure.
There's a truck parked across the street.
I squint. Ford. Dark. I can't read the lettering on the side from here, but I recognize it.
You have got to be kidding me.
Blake.
My stomach does a weird flip—half panic, half rage. He’s just sitting there. Dark cab. Engine off. Staring at my building like a creep.
What is he doing? Checking to see if I’ve left yet? Come to deliver one last insult? Or maybe he just wants to make sure the demolition is complete.
I should close the blinds. I should go to bed.
Instead, I grab my keys off the counter.
Nope. Not doing this.
I’m done being the girl who cries in her apartment while the men make the decisions. If he has something to say, he can say it to my face.
I head downstairs, skipping the coat because I’m too angry to look for it. I push through the front door and the rain hits me instantly—cold, wet, miserable. Perfect.
I cross the street. I don't run. I just walk straight up to the driver's side.
He sees me coming. He has to. But he doesn't move. He just sits there behind the glass.
I yank the door open.
"What do you want, Blake?" I ask. "Haven't you done enough—"
The words die in my throat.
Holy crap.
He looks wrecked. That's the only word for it. His lip is split wide open, swollen to twice its normal size. There's a bruise blooming along his jawline that's going to be purple by morning. But it's his hands that stop me. Resting on the steering wheel, the knuckles are raw. Skinned.
Reid did this.
My brain tries to process that image. Reid, who apologizes to spiders before he puts them outside. Reid beat his best friend's face in.
"He hit you," I say. It comes out flat. Nurse voice. Assessment mode.
"Yeah." Blake doesn't look at me. He's staring at the dashboard like it owes him answers. "He got a few good ones in."
"Good." And honestly? I mean it. "You deserved it."
"I know."
He finally turns his head. Under the streetlight, he looks exhausted. Not just tired. The kind of exhausted that lives in someone's bones, like he's aged decades in the last hour.
"I came to tell you," he says, his voice like he swallowed gravel, "that Reid kicked me out."
I blink. Rain is running down the back of my neck, finding its way under my collar. "What?"
"He told me to get out. Tonight. Said he never wants to see me again."
I lean back a little. I knew Reid was mad. I didn't know he was that mad. Kicking Blake out is like cutting off his own arm. I mean, that's the whole reason for this breakup in the first place.
"So what?" I cross my arms, shivering. "You came here for a place to crash? Because I have a couch, but I'm pretty sure I'd rather set it on fire."
"No," Blake says. "I came to tell you that the problem is gone. You can go back to him."
I stare at him. "Excuse me?"
"You left because of me. Because I wouldn't leave. Well, I'm gone now. I'm shipping out tomorrow night. Afghanistan. I won't be coming back."
"You think..." I shake my head, trying to wrap my brain around the logic. "You think you can just swap? You leave, I go back? That’s not how this works, Blake. You can't un-break something just by leaving the room."
"I can try."
I want to punch him, too. He's infuriating.
"Why?" The question explodes out of me. "Why did you do this? Why did you hate me so much? I tried so hard. I brought you coffee. I tried to learn about your stupid wood. I did everything I could to be your friend."
He flinches. Actually flinches.
He looks down at his bloody hands.
"I didn't hate you," he says quietly.
"Bullshit. You treated me like dirt. You used my secrets against me. You made me feel like I was crazy."
"I know."
"Then why?"
He takes a shaky breath. He looks at me, and the look in his eyes scares me. It’s desperate.
"Because I'm in love with you."
The rain keeps falling. A car drives by a few streets over.
I just stand there.
"What?"
"I've been in love with you since the first night Reid brought you home." The words come out fast, messy. "From the moment you smiled at me in the kitchen. I saw you, and I knew."
I wait for it to make sense. I wait for the romantic music to swell.
It doesn't.
Instead, a wave of nausea rolls through me so strong I almost gag.
It feels like a violation. Every cruel thing he said, every cold look, every time he made me feel small or unwanted—he’s trying to wrap all of that in a word that’s supposed to mean safety. He’s trying to make his cruelty sound noble.
"You're kidding," I say.
"No."
"You love me?" My voice goes up an octave, sharp and cracking. "That's your excuse? You love me, so you tore at me? You love me, so you tried to destroy my relationship with your best friend?"
"I tried to stop," he says, and he’s crying now. Actual tears mixing with the blood on his face. "I tried to hate you. I thought if I pushed you away, I could finally leave. I could stop wanting what belonged to him."
"So you decided to hurt me instead."
"Yes."
"That is so twisted." I step back, wiping the rain from my face, needing to put distance between us. I feel dirty just hearing it. "You don't get to call that love, Blake. You don't get to use that word."
"I know it's messed up—"
"It’s not messed up. It’s sick." I’m shaking now, and it’s not from the cold. "Love is protection. Love is wanting the other person to be happy, even if it’s not with you. What you did? That isn't love. That’s possession. That’s selfishness with a coat of paint on it."
"I know."
"No, you don't know!" I yell, and my voice echoes off the wet pavement. "Because if you actually loved me—if you had even a tiny clue what that word meant—you never would have made me feel like I was worthless. You burned down my life because you were jealous?"
"Yes."
"And you sacrificed Reid? You sacrificed the one person who actually gave a damn about you?"
He nods. He takes it. He looks like a man facing a firing squad, hoping to get shot.
"I'm leaving," he says again. "I'm going to Kabul. And you..." He looks at me, and yeah, okay, I see it now. The way he’s looking at me. It’s hungry. It’s tragic. "You should go back to him. He chose you, Laine. Even at the end, he chose you."
"He kicked you out," I say.
"Exactly."
He reaches for the ignition.
"Wait." The thought hits me hard. "Does he know? Does Reid know you love me?"
Blake closes his eyes. "Yes. I told him."
Oh, God.
That’s it, then. That’s the nail in the coffin. Reid knows.
"Go," I say.
Blake nods. He turns the key. The engine rumbles to life, loud and obnoxious.
"I'm sorry, Laine," he says. "For everything."
"Being sorry doesn't fix it," I tell him. "Just go."
He puts the truck in gear. He doesn't look back. He pulls away from the curb, tires hissing on the wet pavement, and I watch him go.
I stand there in the rain until his taillights turn the corner and vanish.
He's gone.
The bad guy is gone. He confessed, he apologized, and he left.
I should feel relieved. I should feel like I won. I should turn around, get in my car, and drive back to Reid. I should go comfort the man I love and help him heal from this.
But I don't move.
The cold rain soaks through my sweater, chilling me to the bone, but I can’t feel it. All I can feel is the echo of his voice.
I won't be coming back.
It wasn't a travel plan. It was a promise.
I replay the look in his eyes—the hollow, dead exhaustion. The raw, bloody knuckles. The way he looked at me like he was memorizing my face.
He didn't come here to fix my relationship. He didn't come here to clear his conscience.
He came here to say goodbye.
A sick, cold dread uncoils in my stomach. He’s going to Afghanistan. He’s going to a war zone with a death wish and a broken heart. He’s not planning on coming home.
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking uncontrollably.
He thinks he’s solving the equation. He thinks if he subtracts himself, the rest of us will balance out. That Reid and I will patch things up and live happily ever after.
But he’s wrong.
Thank you for reading my new story What We Break!