Chapter 10
TEN
Charli
The Grand Marshal: Walks ahead of the band and sets the pace for everyone behind him. The procession follows where he leads.
I click through each field in Emma Thibodaux’s chart. Eight weeks post-surgery, her range of motion has improved consistently. I mark her mother’s compliance with the home exercises as excellent.
Morning sunlight filters through the blinds in my office, striping the stack of journals I still need to review before the seminar this afternoon.
The three-hour continuing education session focuses on proprioceptive techniques for pediatric trauma patients, which is exactly the kind of concrete information my brain needs today.
My fingers pause over the keyboard. For a moment, I see him again sitting in the truck with the engine idling, staring straight ahead as I walked up to the open window. The rigid set of his shoulders and the way he held onto the steering wheel for dear life said more than any words could have.
I shake my head and refocus on the screen in front of me.
“Goals for next session,” I mutter, typing quickly. “Continue weight-bearing exercises to strengthen ankle stabilizers.”
My phone hums against the wooden desk, the sudden buzz breaking through my concentration.
I glance down, and everything stops.
Reeves Stone.
His name sits on the screen like a dagger pulled straight out of the past, headed straight between my eyes. For six years, I’ve kept him there, contained and untouched. Now he is back for the third day in a row.
My stomach tightens as I open the message.
I should have asked you something yesterday. Do you have time to meet before I leave for deployment next week?
I read it once, then again, waiting for the meaning to shift.
It doesn’t.
This isn’t vague to me. There is only one reason he would come looking for me after all this time.
Benjy.
I left the letter on his windshield myself. I told him everything in it. He knew. If he stayed silent after that, then it was because he chose to.
He didn’t want kids. He made that clear before everything fell apart. I took him at his word and built a life without him.
Now he is driving past my house and sending messages like the past never happened.
Why now?
If he wants to be part of Benjy’s life, that changes everything.
My hands press flat against the desk, the cool wood steadying the tremor in them.
I could ignore the message. I could delete it and pretend this never happened.
But he has already driven past my house twice. If I stay silent, what happens next? Does he show up at my door while Benjy is standing right behind me?
No.
If this conversation is going to happen, it will happen on my terms.
I pick up my phone and begin typing carefully.
I'll be in New Orleans this afternoon for a seminar at Tulane Medical Center. I could meet for a drink afterward around 5:30. The Columns Hotel on St. Charles has a decent bar.
A public place on my terms, far from Benjy and my parents and our quiet street in Bay St. Louis.
The phone is hot in my hand as I set it down. The seminar schedule glows on my computer screen, patient files stacked neatly beside my keyboard. The ordinary details of my day continue, but everything has shifted.
I try to focus on my notes again, but all I can think about is the drive to New Orleans this afternoon and what waits for me there.
The coffee mug slips through my fingers but catches on the edge of the counter instead of shattering. Small favors.
"Keep it together," I mutter, gripping the ceramic handle with more care.
I pull my messenger bag from the closet and methodically gather what I need for the seminar. I lay out a fresh notebook, some of my favorite pens, business cards, and my license. Each item checked off my mental list, giving me a sense of control when everything else is spinning out.
My seminar clothes wait on the bed. I picked dark jeans and a navy blazer over a gray V-neck T-shirt. Professional without trying too hard. I lay out a simple necklace beside them, the silver pendant Benjy picked for me last Mother's Day.
Benjy.
The thought of him suddenly brings a wave of nausea, with Reeves all of a sudden circling us like a bird of prey.
In the shower, hot water pounds against my shoulders, but doesn't wash away the questions piling up. I keep telling myself to let it go and see where things go instead of trying to piece together all of the "what ifs.”
But I can't help myself.
I rinse conditioner from my hair, trying to focus on simple physical actions.
The clock on my bedside table reads 10:45 when I step out of the bathroom. Six hours and forty-five minutes until I see him.
Steam billows around me as I wipe fog from the bathroom mirror. My reflection appears gradually, but my eyes catch on the splash of bright color taped to the wall beside me.
Benjy's drawing, the one he made last week after we finished the treehouse repairs with Dad.
Four stick figures stand beside a brown square with a triangular roof. It’s me, with exaggerated curly hair, Mom with her silver bun, and Dad wearing what appears to be a tool belt. Benjy is in the middle, holding hands with me and my mom, his smile a wide half-circle of crayon.
Everything closes in on me.
This is Benjy's world. Four stick figures and a treehouse. Simple. Complete.
Reeves has missed five birthdays and five Christmases. That's over five years of watching those green eyes discover the world with wonder instead of wariness.
I touch the drawing gently.
By noon, I'm on the highway, every mile of asphalt bringing me closer to New Orleans.
The anxiety lodges physically between my ribs, a constant pressure that makes each breath more deliberate. The radio plays Counting Stars, by One Republic, which I don't really hear.
I rehearse opening lines in my head, then discard them all as inadequate.
His name is Benjamin. He's five.
The presenter drones on about proprioceptive feedback mechanisms in toddlers with developmental delays. The PowerPoint slides advance with excruciating slowness. I write another note in my margin, more to keep myself alert than because the information is revolutionary.
My phone sits face-down beside my notebook. I flip it over.
4:02 PM.
Eighty-eight minutes left of the seminar.
The woman beside me shifts in her chair. I force my attention back to the front of the room, where Dr. Baxter demonstrates a stabilization technique using a volunteer from the audience.
"Notice how the pressure needs to be firm but not restrictive," she explains. "We're looking for sensory input that grounds the patient without triggering a defensive response."
The irony isn't lost on me. My own system is anything but grounded right now.
I write down another note. My handwriting looks too precise. Too controlled.
My phone vibrates against the table. I turn it over fast enough to jostle my water bottle.
Still good for 5:30?
My stomach drops.
I type back.
Yes. See you then.
When Dr. Baxter finally concludes her presentation, I'm the first person standing. I gather my things with practiced efficiency, nodding polite goodbyes to the other therapists.
Outside, the New Orleans humidity washes over me immediately. The city hums with the usual late-afternoon energy, but today it only sharpens the tension I’ve been carrying since I first saw him on the street.
The Columns Hotel stands a block away, its white columns glowing in the slanted evening light. I smooth my blazer, adjust the strap of my messenger bag, and walk toward it with steps that feel both too fast and too slow.
At the entrance to the bar, I pause.
Through the glass, I can see the room is half full with the early evening crowd, but I don’t spot Reeves.
I remind myself to take the same approach I use with patients. I have to be clear, direct, and leave no room for misunderstanding.
I push through the door.
The cold air hits me at the door along with the low murmur of other people's conversations, the clink of glass, the kind of ambient noise that makes you feel anonymous. I could use anonymous right now.
Reeves sits at a small table in the back corner, his back to the wall, his face toward the door.
I don't get a second to take in the room or settle into this on my terms. He is already watching me.
Six years, and one look still has me in knots before I can stop it.
Those green eyes lock onto mine across the room, and my body does something completely independent of my better judgment. Heat moves up the back of my neck, low in my stomach, somewhere I don't have permission to feel anything right now.
I keep walking because stopping would be worse than the alternative.
He was handsome at twenty-two in that careless way young men don't appreciate. He is something else entirely now. The years have settled into him, filling out his shoulders, sharpening the line of his jaw.
The ink I glimpsed last night through his truck window is even more striking in this setting. Both arms covered, dark against the white of his button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The tattoos don't hide the veins running the length of his forearms, and I have no business noticing that either.
I notice his forearms.
Stop it.
He rises when I reach the table, his movements fluid and controlled. My eyes snag on his belt buckle when he stands. Sterling silver, alligator strap, his initials in block script. I'd know it anywhere.
He always wore that belt in college. Part wealth, part rebellion. Like he couldn't decide which one to be.
He's still wearing it.
I drag my eyes back to his face and remind myself why I'm here.
He looks looser than he did last night in the truck.
"Charli."
Six years and one word, and my stomach drops like I'm eighteen again. His voice does that. It always did. I'd forgotten, or told myself I had.
"Reeves."
I slide into the chair across from him, careful not to brush his legs beneath the small table.
We don't shake hands. We don't hug. Not business, not personal. We've become something undefined in the years since we've seen each other.
“You look well,” Reeves says.
The words sound polite, but his eyes move over me in a way that doesn’t feel polite at all.
“So do you,” I reply.
He glances briefly around the room, then back to me. “You said you had a seminar today?”
“Yeah, continuing education,” I say. “Pediatric trauma techniques.”
He nods once.
The server appears beside the table before either of us can say more.
“Gin and tonic,” I say.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
Reeves doesn’t look away as the server walks off.
“Are you still working in finance?” he asks.
I worked for a stockbroker as his executive assistant right after college. It was a good job, but it was never a career. Just shows how deep the gap is between us. He doesn't know me at all. Not even the version of me who spent months planning out a preschool like it was already real.
“No. I started occupational therapy school not long after.” I stop there, avoiding the timeline. “I've been a therapist for about three years.”
He gives a small nod.
“The military has been good for you,” I say. “I'm glad.”
“It has.” His gaze holds mine a second longer than it needs to. “I don’t sit still well.”
Our drinks arrive. I take a sip that burns all the way down.
Reeves wraps his hand around his glass but doesn't drink. "I just read your letter."
Those words hit me like a physical force. I nearly choke. I clear my throat as my fingers tighten around the cool glass.
My letter. The letter? The last one I wrote him and left for him on his windshield?
"I'm not sure what you're saying. Are you talking about the note I left you six years ago?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Reeves sets his untouched bourbon on the table. "I never saw it before. Yes, that letter. I got it that morning, but I put it in my drawer without reading it."
"You just put it away? For six years?" Heat rises up my neck. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I was leaving for Navy training that afternoon. I'd already signed the papers. Already made the choice." His voice drops lower. "I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid you'd give me a reason to stay."
The words hang between us. My mouth goes dry as understanding blooms, painful and clear. He never knew.
"So you threw it in a drawer and walked away."
"Yes."
One simple word that explains so much. The silence. The years. The life I built without him.
His jaw tightens. He looks past me for a moment, then back, his green eyes almost glowing in the bar's low light.
"The day you left the letter, when I came out of the gym and saw it, I didn't know if I was strong enough to read it. I just thought it was best to leave it be. So I stuffed it in the back of my drawer and forgot about it."
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Does that mean he had no idea about my pregnancy?
I'm at a loss for words. I want to run out of here so fast that my mind erases what it just learned. I want to go back to yesterday when the most stressful thing in my life was whether I should sell my practice or not.
"I convinced myself our relationship was over. Reading your letter would just..." He takes a breath. "Complicate things."
The irony stings so sharply I almost laugh.
"Complicate things," I repeat quietly.
A waiter passes with a tray of drinks. Conversations hum around us. Normal people having normal evenings, while my carefully constructed world trembles.
He never knew. All this time, he never knew.
Reeves finally takes a sip of his bourbon and drains the entire glass. He sets it down carefully, as if he's trying not to make noise, and looks directly into my eyes.
"Did you have the baby?"
The directness of the question leaves nowhere to hide. There's no room for half-truths or deflections.
"Yes." My voice doesn't waver.
He goes completely still.
The bar keeps moving around us. Someone laughs too loudly at the next table. Ice clinks. A server squeezes past. None of it touches what just happened between the two of us.