Chapter 5 Reeves
FIVE
Reeves
The Bass Drum: Sets the tempo for everyone behind it. The procession adjusts its pace without being told.
The engine screams between my thighs as I push the dirt bike harder. My back tire catches the edge of a rut, spitting gravel behind me. I lean into the curve and twist the throttle, letting the bike move like it's part of my body.
Rhodes is fifty yards ahead, his green helmet bobbing as he navigates the narrow trail. I close the gap, the scent of gasoline and warm Louisiana soil filling my lungs.
I could pass him. My thumb hovers over the throttle.
Instead, I ease back and let him keep the lead.
Sunlight filters through the pine trees in broken patches. The trail narrows, then opens to a clearing, and we skid to matching stops, engines growling before we kill them.
The sudden quiet is jarring. My body still shudders, my heart pounding in my ears.
We lift our visors at the same time, and Rhodes grins. "That was fucking epic."
I pull my helmet off, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. "You know I let you win. Right, little bro?"
"Bullshit." Rhodes yanks off his own helmet. "I've been riding these trails for months. You're the one who forgot what Louisiana dirt feels like."
"Some things you don't forget." I grab the water bottle from my bike and take a long pull. "That marsh cut is fucking badass. When did you carve that out?"
Rhodes shrugs, but pride leaks through. "Last summer. Ridge doesn't know. Says it ruins the ecosystem or some shit."
"Speaking of ruining things, don't you have classes?"
"Don't you have a war?" he shoots back, still smiling. "How long you staying this time?"
I shrug. "About a week. Then back out."
"That barely counts as visiting." Rhodes kicks at the dirt.
"Staying anywhere too long makes me restless." I half smile.
Rhodes nods like he gets it, but he doesn't.
We stand there for a moment, just breathing. The engines tick as they cool, wind moving through the trees.
For once, I don't feel the need to fill the silence or plan my exit. The adrenaline still buzzes under my skin, but it's not the desperate kind.
"I love being out here like this. I would have killed for an escape like this when I lived here."
Rhodes looks at me like the Cheshire Cat.
He points toward a narrow opening between two oaks.
"I come out here most weekends when I'm not stuck with school shit.
Ridge doesn't like me using the cabin, but I have a key, so I'll stay out there sometimes.
Wells knows, because Wells. But he doesn't out me as long as I don't have any parties out here. "
Wells is our cyber guy. He probably has eyes on all of us at all times.
I scan the property. Towering pines. Twisting oak branches. Sunlight breaking across the ground. It's been years since I've been out here, but it hasn't changed much. Just new paths carved through old growth.
"Feels like I could still navigate this place blindfolded." I rev the engine lightly. "The routes are familiar, even if the trails are new."
Rhodes shrugs. "Mom used to bring us out here all the time when we were little. I don't remember much about her, but I remember coming here with her."
I go still for a second. The casual mention of her catches me off guard.
I see her clear as day, standing at the forest's edge in faded jeans and a blue flannel. I can feel her hand on my shoulder as she points to a set of deer tracks, finger to her lips so we don't scare anything away.
My gaze drifts toward the thicker stretch of trees leading down to the marsh.
That was the place she loved most.
"You actually remember any of that?" I ask, voice rougher than intended. He was so young when she died. Being the youngest, he was the one who was really robbed out of all of us.
Rhodes looks down and kicks at a pinecone. "Not really, honestly. I was only four when she died." He scratches the back of his neck. "Most of what I know comes from stories you guys tell me."
I nod slowly, absorbing the difference between us. For me, her absence is a fault line. It's the moment everything shifted. It shaped how I live, always moving, never anchored. But for Rhodes, she's a story. A photograph passed down rather than lived.
"She had this thing about the birds," I say, surprising myself. "She could identify them just by their calls."
Rhodes doesn't respond. Maybe he doesn't know what to do with information like that.
His phone buzzes, breaking the silence. He pulls it from his pocket and frowns at the screen.
"Shit. I need to head back to the city. Got a study group at four."
Just like that, we're back to logistics and away from memories. It's easier that way for all of us.
"Go ahead. We have two cars, so you can go." I tilt my head toward the Hummer parked at the edge of the clearing. "You can leave the bike by my truck and I'll trailer it when I'm done. I want to ride the other one down to the cabin first."
His eyebrows shoot up. "You know Ridge kidnapped Coco Boudreaux after Dad died and kept her there, right? Fucking crazy shit went down."
"I know. I didn't hear about it until after the fact. Who knew Ridge had it in him? Now look at them."
Rhodes laughs. Not sure at what. "I didn't bring my key. Do you have one?"
I shrug, savoring the warm sun on my shoulders through my t-shirt. "I don't need to get inside. I just want to put my eyes on it. I don't think I've been out there since I enlisted."
"I hear you, soldier boy." He twirls the keys around his finger. "Just take the trail that curves along the marsh. The one that cuts straight east dead-ends in a drainage ditch now."
"Got it."
He hesitates, squinting against the midday sun. "When do you leave again? Unless Ridge talks you into staying, that is."
The question slides under my skin like a splinter. It's small and harmless, but still irritating.
"I leave a week from Friday," I answer with a practiced lightness, my go-to response for questions about permanence.
Rhodes snorts. "Shit. That will be here before we know it. That is, unless Ridge kidnaps you."
We both laugh at the absurdness and irony in that. We know exactly how our oldest brother operates.
I know Rhodes isn't lecturing me about my brief stay. In fairness, this is a long one. He's used to me being gone.
"Not quick enough."
Rhodes pulls his helmet back on, voice muffled through the visor. "Don't get eaten by gators."
"If I do, I will tell them to start with my left leg. Right one's my good one."
He flips me off before riding back toward the Hummer. The engine whines as it fades away to a rattle in the trees. I watch until he disappears, leaving nothing but a faint cloud of dust hanging in the air.
Then it's just me.
The woods fall into a deep quiet I haven't experienced in years. No engines. No voices. No orders. No gunfire.
Just the steady rhythm of crickets, the occasional call of a bird, and the soft rustle of wind through pine needles.
I swing back onto the dirt bike and kick it to life, revving the engine to push against the quiet. The trail narrows ahead, winding along the edge of the marsh. Cypress knees puncture the soggy ground to my right, dense pines crowding my left.
Each bump and jolt feels familiar, like riding the wake of an old memory. The path curves around a massive oak before straightening out.
The woods open to a sunlit clearing, and I cut the throttle. The cabin stands in the center, weathered gray planks against the green backdrop. Its wide porch faces the marsh, just as I remember.
I kill the engine.
The silence rushes in again.
"Fuck." The word slips out under my breath.
My boots crunch across the clearing. The steps creak under my weight. I don't check the door, just glance through the windows at the same simple furnishings.
I lower myself onto the top step and lean back against one of the porch posts, the wood rough against my shoulder blades.
Across the clearing, tall pines sway in the breeze. The movement without sound makes my skin prickle.
Mom used to sit right here.
I can picture her in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, knees pulled to her chest, eyes tracking a squirrel or bird or some other wildlife.
"Look, Reeves," she'd say. "Watch how the light changes when the wind moves through the grass."
I never understood what she meant. I never sat still long enough to notice.
My fingers tap against my thigh. One. Two. Three.
The quiet presses in, each breath taking more effort than it should.
How could she stand it? Just sitting. Watching.
I push myself upright. The restlessness crawls under my skin, demanding motion.
Back on the bike, the engine roars to life, drowning everything else out. The vibration grounds me. I tear out of the clearing faster than necessary, whipping past trees until I hit the gravel road that leads back to my truck.
I pull into the long, curved driveway just as the gate swings closed behind me.
The Hummer rumbles to a stop beside the garage. I step out, lower the trailer ramp, and roll the bikes down one at a time. Both are coated in a thin layer of dried mud from the trails, the kind that cakes into the bolts if you leave it too long.
The lights in the garage flick on automatically as I move.
The garden hose is still coiled against the side of the garage where it’s always been.
I pull it free and twist the spigot open until the line jumps to life in my hand.
The first blast of water hits the frame of Rhodes's bike with a sharp hiss, knocking loose a ribbon of dirt that slides toward the concrete.
This part makes sense in a way most things don’t lately.
There’s a rhythm to it. A clear order. I move along both bikes, rinsing the tires, the chains, the engine casings, watching the mud dissolve and run across the floor toward the drain. The repetition and work are satisfying after the unexpected walk down memory lane.
One section at a time. No second-guessing.
By the time I finish, the sun has dipped low enough that the light stretches long across the driveway. I shut off the hose, coil it back against the wall, and roll the bikes into the garage.
Rhodes will probably undo half of this next weekend.
I leave my jacket draped over the workbench and head into the house, still carrying the faint smell of gasoline and damp dirt with me.
The place is quiet when I step inside. It appears everyone is gone because my steps echo and no one greets me when I walk in. I prefer it this way.
The system adjusts the temperature before I make it halfway across the room.
Upstairs, I head straight for the shower.
Hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away the sweat and dust from the ride. I let it run for a few minutes, then shut it off. The bathroom falls quiet except for the drip of the faucet and the low hum of the air conditioner.
I wrap a towel around my waist and walk back into the bedroom, running another one through my hair.
My duffel bag sits open on the floor where I dropped it when I arrived in New Orleans. I’ve been living out of that instead of digging through whatever’s left in the dresser, but tonight I pull one open.
There’s a closet full of clothes I haven’t touched. The second drawer sticks slightly.
Inside is a stack of worn T-shirts from college. I push through them, looking for nothing in particular.
That’s when I see the envelope at the back.
For a second, I don’t register it. Then my hand moves before I think better of it and lifts it from the wood.
The handwriting stops me cold. Charli’s unmistakable bubble letters.
The memory hits fast. Six years collapses in on itself.
I’m back in the parking lot outside the gym, the envelope tucked under my windshield wiper. Two weeks after our last fight. The last time I saw her.
By then, the paperwork was signed. I was leaving for basic the next morning.
I remember standing there with it in my hand, knowing exactly who it was from—and what opening it would do.
Charli and I always fell into the same pattern. Fight. Pull apart. Find our way back.
It never changed.
I turned the envelope over, already knowing reading it would drag me straight back into that cycle. I’d made my decision about the life I was going to live, and I knew how easily she could make me question it.
So I didn’t open it.
I shoved it into a drawer when I got home and told myself I’d deal with it later.
I never did.
Now the envelope rests in my hand, waiting here the entire time. I flip it over and tear the flap open.
The pale pink paper inside unfolds easily, the creases still sharp despite the years. Charli’s handwriting runs across the page in neat, controlled lines that sound so much like her voice I can almost hear the way she would have said the words.
The paper inside is pale pink, folded once down the middle. Charli’s handwriting stretches across the page in the same neat, deliberate script I remember from a hundred notes she used to leave on my truck.
For a second, I just look at it. Then I start to read.
Reeves,
I heard you’re leaving town soon. You never told me, but news travels fast around here.
I’m not writing to change your mind. We both know the life you want, and I know I’m not part of it.
There’s something you deserve to know before you go.
I’m pregnant.
I found out last week. You should also know that I’m keeping the baby.
I remember what you said the last time we had a scare, and I know where you stand on things like this. I’m not asking you to stay, and I’m not expecting anything from you. I’ll figure it out.
But this is your child, and I didn’t think it was right for you to leave without knowing.
If you want to reach out, you can. If you don’t, I’ll understand.
— Charli
My legs give out.
I sit on the edge of the bed and read it again.
I'm pregnant.
The room doesn't change. The walls stay where they are. The same dresser, the same window, the same house I grew up in.
I'm still holding the letter.
Did she have the child? The kid on the bike. The dark hair. The chin. The way he set his jaw when he concentrated.
My hand won't stop shaking.
All this time, I thought I had walked away cleanly, closing the door.
Instead, there’s a whole life out there that started the moment we closed that door.