Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The empty cardboard box sits open on our bed, and just the sight of it makes my heart ache.
Reeves has already packed some of his clothes this morning while Liam was at school.
He took his guitar, his amplifier, and most of his books.
The house feels hollow without his presence filling up the spaces.
I'm about to fill the box with more of his stuff when Oliver appears from nowhere, his silver fur catching the afternoon light streaming through our bedroom window.
He sniffs the cardboard edges, whiskers twitching with curiosity, then hops inside with that graceful cat leap that always makes me smile.
His green eyes peer over the cardboard rim like he's conquered some great fortress, and despite everything—despite the divorce papers sitting on my nightstand, despite the mess I've made of our lives—I laugh.
"Really, Oliver? That's your new bed?"
He meows once, then begins that elaborate cat ritual of turning in circles, pawing at the bottom of the box like he's preparing the most luxurious sleeping quarters. His little pink tongue darts out as he concentrates, completely serious about this important task.
"You know Caine spent good money on that fancy cat bed downstairs."
Oliver ignores me completely. He finally settles into a perfect curl, tail wrapped around his body, and closes his eyes. The contentment on his face is absolute. Pure.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. This kitten, who arrived in the middle of my chaos, who Liam loves so fiercely, who somehow makes everything feel a little less broken. Reeves was so angry about Oliver at first, but even he warmed up to the little guy eventually.
"At least someone's happy with the changes around here," I whisper.
Oliver opens one eye, studies me for a moment, then closes it again. His tiny chest rises and falls with deep, peaceful breaths.
I reach over and gently stroke his fur. He purrs immediately, that motor sound cats make when the world is exactly as it should be. For just this moment, watching him sleep in Reeves’s moving box, I feel something close to peace.
Maybe we'll all figure out how to be okay.
I place his t-shirts in the box, the ones I used to steal and wear around the house. The fabric still smells like Old Spice and something uniquely him. My chest tightens as I pack his cologne, the bottle nearly empty.
Seven years. We built a life together, had dreams. I remember the day we bought this house, how he carried me over the threshold like we were newlyweds. How he'd dance with me in the kitchen while dinner cooked, spinning me around until I was dizzy with laughter.
That man is still in there somewhere, buried under the gambling and the lies and the anger.
I want to help him find his way back, but I don't know how.
Every time I try to picture reaching out, offering support, I remember his hand striking my cheek, the word "whore" spilling from his lips like poison.
The phone rings. Caine's name appears on the screen.
My heart does that stupid skip it always does when I see his name. My breath catches despite myself. But irritation flares right behind the flutter of excitement.
"I told you—"
"I know what you said." His voice is gentle but determined. "This isn't about us. It's about Reeves."
I sink onto the bed beside the box of memories.
"What about him?"
"I've been thinking. About addiction, about second chances." He pauses. "I found a treatment center up north. One of the best in the country. Ninety-day program, full therapy, the works. I can cover everything."
The offer hits me like a slap. My first instinct is to refuse.
"Caine, he'll never accept charity from you. He's too proud."
"Then don't tell him it's from me. Say it's from your insurance.. I don't care about the credit, Jenna. I just want him to get help."
I stare at Reeves’s things scattered across our bed—our former bed—and feel something crack open in my chest.
"Why would you do that?"
"Because he's Liam's father. And because you still love him."
The drive to Pine Ridge Recovery Center takes me through winding roads that seem to climb toward something hopeful. When I finally see Reeves waiting on the front porch, my breath catches. He looks... good. Better than I've seen him in years.
His face has color again, not that gray pallor of stress and sleepless nights. His hair is trimmed, his clothes clean. But it's his eyes that stop me cold—they're clear. Alert. Like someone turned the lights back on inside him.
"Hey, stranger." He stands as I approach, that crooked smile I fell for in college spreading across his face.
"You look… good." I mean it completely.
“Feels weird to agree with you.” He pats the empty chair. “Sit. Tell me you brought some chaos from home. I’m getting used to the quiet.”
I lower into the rocker. “No chaos. Just Liam's drawings and a story about a train named Speedy.”
He laughs, low and warm. “That’s our boy.”
The room hums with soft voices and clinking mugs. I can’t help going back to that night in our kitchen—his jaw locked, a coffee mug exploding against the wall, my voice shaking and relentless.
“I don’t need rehab,” he’d growled, chest heaving. “I’m not broken.”
“Our insurance covers it,” I’d lied, palms up, pretending I had a safety net.
He’d paced. He’d cursed. He’d shut down.
“It’s for Liam,” I’d whispered. “For his future. For his college fund. Please.”
Now, in the glow of this room, he rubs his palms on his jeans. “I fought you like hell.”
“You did.”
“And you were right.” His mouth twists. “Don’t make me say that twice.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “Once is enough.”
“They put me on meds.” He taps his temple. “OCD, addiction. Turns out my brain’s been running its own crooked hustle. First time in a long time I can see past lunch.”
“A month,” I murmur. “You’re doing it.”
“I’m starting to feel… like things are possible.”
He leans forward a little. “How’s Liam, really? Is he doing okay without me around?”
“He's doing alright, considering. It's cute… he reads to Oliver.”
“Good.” His eyes soften. “And… Caine?”
My stomach tightens. I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “We’re on a break. I asked for time. I’m hoping he’ll still be there when I’m ready.”
He watches me for a beat. “I know there’s no getting you back. I hate that it’s him, but…” He exhales through his nose. “I want you to be happy. If Liam likes him—if he treats you right—I’ll deal.”
“He likes Liam,” I whisper. “A lot.”
“I figured.” His jaw works. “I know he’s covering this place. Your insurance—our insurance—blows. I hate taking charity from the guy. I’ll take it anyway. For Liam.”
Heat rises behind my eyes. I reach for him before I think better of it. He smells like soap, not beer. His arms come around me, solid and careful.
“I’m proud of you,” I murmur into his shoulder. "A month in. How are you feeling?"
"Like maybe I won't fuck everything up this time." His laugh is self-deprecating but not bitter. "First time in years I can see past tomorrow without panicking."
We talk more about Liam, about his ongoing obsession with trains and how Oliver follows him everywhere like a fuzzy shadow. Reeves’s face lights up when I tell him about Liam's progress in speech therapy.
I pull away, searching his face. "Seriously, I am so damn proud of you."
He offers a soft smile, eyes still holding that new, unfamiliar calm. "It's a start."
We talk for a while longer, about the future. His future. My heart swells. This is the Reeves I knew, the one with dreams beyond the next poker game.
Eventually, the sun dips lower, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. A chime signals the end of visiting hours.
"I should go," I say, a pang of sadness echoing in my chest. This newfound peace between us feels fragile, something I don’t want to disturb.
Reeves walks me to my car, his arm brushing mine. The contact is comforting, not electric. Not like Caine.
"Jenna," he says, just as I reach for the door handle. I turn, already bracing myself for what comes next. He takes a deep breath. "I know you probably don’t care anymore, but...Melissa. I ended things with her."
My breath catches. I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to scream, to ask him why it took a breakdown to make him realize what he had. Another part, the older, softer part, just feels a wave of sadness for him.
He sees the turmoil on my face. "I messed up, Jen. Worse than I ever let myself admit. But I'm trying. For me. For Liam." He pauses, his gaze earnest. "And for you. Even if it's just as friends."
"I should go." I manage to squeeze out, sliding into the driver's seat. He steps back, watching me.
As I drive away, the image of his clear, determined eyes stays with me. The knowledge that he’s genuinely trying, that he’s facing his demons, settles heavily in my heart.
This isn’t the end of our story, not really. It’s just... a different chapter. A chapter where he’s finding himself, and I'm still figuring out who I am.