Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Reeves
The Second Line: The crowd that forms behind the first line — not of obligation, but of belonging. You join because something in you has to.
I sit on the back patio staring at my phone. The screen glows in the dark, the only light besides the dim blue pool light behind me.
She said it quietly yesterday, the way people say things that change the shape of your life. My jaw clenches. I set the phone face down on the coffee table and run both hands through my hair.
In my world, you gather intel, build a plan, and execute. Variables are accounted for. Contingencies are mapped out.
A five-year-old son you didn’t know existed doesn’t fit into any of that.
I stand and pace to the sliding door, then back to the edge of the patio. The night air is heavy and still.
I just want to meet him.
That’s what I told her last night. It sounded simple when I said it. One meeting. One conversation. See the kid. Then I leave for deployment, and everything goes back to the way it was.
Except, now the reality of actually meeting him sits on my shoulders like a cinder block.
Right now, he’s abstract. He’s just a piece of information I’m still trying to process.
But if I meet him, if he looks up at me, then this stops being abstract. It becomes real. And once it’s real, leaving becomes something else entirely.
My jaw tightens. I pick up the phone again.
Maybe the smartest move is to tell her something came up. That I got called away early.
I start typing.
I'd love to, but things have changed and I don't think I'll make it back to Bay St. Louis before I leave.
The cursor blinks at the end of the message.
I stare at it for a long time before setting the phone back down. I stand up and pace. The phone still sits on the table like a live grenade.
For the first time since Charli told me about the kid, real panic hits. Not the sharp, controlled awareness that comes before a mission. This is different.
I could tell her I need more time.
The way she looked at me that night surfaces. Like she already knew how it would end. Like I was already halfway out the door.
I exhale slowly and drag a hand across the back of my neck.
I’m doing it again.
My gaze drops to the phone again.
Fuck that.
I grab my keys from the counter. If I think about this any longer, I will talk myself out of it. Then I will prove every doubt Charli has about me. I'd confirm every suspicion that I cannot handle anything that requires staying in one place long enough to matter.
The drive from New Orleans to Bay St. Louis gives a man plenty of time to reconsider his decisions. Traffic thins as the city falls away behind me, the road stretching west along the dark edge of the water. My hands stay tight on the steering wheel the entire drive.
I keep telling myself this is simple. I am meeting a kid who likes digging holes in the sand. I'll say hello, make small talk, and then leave when it's appropriate.
By the time I reach Bay St. Louis, it's nearly 3:30. I was hoping to get here before them, but based on when she said they would get here, I think I'm about ten minutes too late.
I park along the road near the beach access and sit for a moment with the engine idling, watching the narrow path that cuts through the dunes.
Part of me still considers turning the truck around and heading back toward New Orleans.
Instead, I shut off the engine and step out.
The sand is soft beneath my boots as I follow the path down toward the shoreline. The sound of the water grows louder with every step until the beach opens up in front of me.
I spot them almost immediately.
Charli stands near the waterline, barefoot in the sand with the wind tugging lightly at her hair. Several yards ahead of her, a small boy runs between the surf and the dry sand with a plastic bucket swinging wildly from one hand.
I slow down without meaning to.
From this distance, I can see the kid’s movements clearly. He runs full speed, then drops into the sand without slowing down, completely locked in on whatever he’s found. I don’t know what to make of it, but I notice it.
For a moment, I can't breathe. My lungs seize, and a lump inches its way up to my brain.
Charli watches him the way parents do when their kids are small, her body angled slightly toward the water, but her attention fixed on the boy’s every move.
The boy crouches again, digging furiously into the sand with a plastic shovel as if he is trying to reach the center of the earth.
My son. I start walking toward them.
Christ.
He's smaller than I imagined. Dark hair catches the sunlight as he moves. There's energy in him, purpose in the way he approaches whatever he's doing.
Charli turns and notices me standing several yards away. Our eyes meet for a brief moment. She doesn’t wave or smile, just gives a small nod that feels more like permission than invitation.
My feet want to stay planted right where I am. Every instinct tells me to keep my distance and watch from somewhere safe, somewhere this remains manageable.
Instead, I force myself to keep walking.
The sand shifts under my boots as I cross the last stretch of beach. Charli notices me before the kid does. Her posture straightens slightly, the only sign she gives that this moment means anything at all.
“You made it,” she says.
Her voice is steady, almost casual, as if this is just another afternoon on the beach.
“I said I would. Thanks for giving me the opportunity.”
She studies me for a second, measuring my reaction, then steps a little to the side.
“Benjy,” she says gently. “Come here a second.”
The kid looks up from where he’s crouched near the edge of the water. He has a plastic shovel in one hand and sand up to his wrists.
He jogs over without hesitation, stopping beside her and glancing up at me with open curiosity.
“Benjy, this is Reeves,” Charli says. “He’s a old friend from when I went to college.”
Benjy’s gaze moves back to me. He studies my face the way kids do, direct and unfiltered, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Green eyes that are bright and focused, slightly narrowed from the sun. The breath leaves my lungs before I realize I’ve been holding it.
Those are my eyes looking back at me.
Benjy holds my gaze for a few seconds, then seems satisfied that I’m not particularly mysterious.
"You went to LSU?"
"I did. Purple and gold are my favorite colors."
He points back toward the hole he left in the sand.
“I’m building a trap,” he announces, ready to move on just like that.
“For what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Pirates.”
He says it with complete confidence and goes back to digging.
I crouch down a few feet away from him. Close enough to see what he's doing, far enough not to crowd him.
“Now that’s cool.”
This time, he looks up. Those green eyes study my face with careful attention. Not shy. Not scared. Just curious.
"My pirate trap disappeared."
He says it with the seriousness of someone reporting a crime.
"Is that so?"
"I dug a really deep hole yesterday. Way deeper than this one." He gestures to the shallow depression in front of him. "I put sticks across the bottom and covered it with seaweed so pirates would fall in if they tried to steal treasure."
His hands move as he talks, sketching the dimensions in the air.
"But it's gone now. The whole thing."
I glance toward the waterline.
"Maybe the tide filled it in?"
"No." He shakes his head firmly. "Pirates found it. They probably had spies watching me build it. Then they came back at night and took it apart."
The logic is flawless in his five-year-old mind. I find myself nodding along.
"How do you think the spies spotted it?"
"Pirates are really smart. They probably sent scouts to watch the beach first." His eyes light up. "The scouts probably hid behind those rocks over there and took notes."
He points toward a cluster of weathered stones near the dunes.
"That's good reconnaissance."
The word slips out before I think about it. Benjy latches onto it immediately.
"What's reconnaissance?"
"Gathering information, like we do in the military. Watching and learning before you make a move."
"That's exactly what they did." He brightens. "So I need to build a better one."
He struggles with the word and I can't help but smile at how his brain put it together.
"You can call it 'recon' for short."
"Yeah. Recon."
He starts digging again with renewed energy. Sand flies everywhere.
"Want some help?"
He considers this offer seriously. "Do you know about building traps?"
"I know about making things that won't fall apart."
That's apparently good enough. He scoots over to make room.
I kneel beside him and start packing wet sand around the edges of his hole. "If you brace the sides like this, it'll hold its shape better."
Benjy watches every movement. When I hand him a clump of wet sand, he copies exactly what I did. His tongue pokes out slightly as he concentrates.
"Why does that work?"
"Wet sand sticks together. Dry sand just crumbles."
He nods, then packs another section, testing the technique.
"Where do you work? Do you help kids like my mom?"
The question comes out of nowhere. I pause, a handful of sand still in my palm.
"I'm in the military. I help people in other countries."
"Like a soldier?"
"Yeah. Like a soldier."
His eyes go wide. "Do you fight pirates?"
Close enough.
"Sometimes I fight people who hurt others."
"Do you go on missions?"
"I do."
"Secret missions?"
"Some of them."
He leans in, lowering his voice. "Maybe you could teach the pirates lessons about not stealing treasure."
"Maybe I could."
We work together for several more minutes. He asks about helicopters and boats. I keep my answers simple. The kid soaks up every detail.
This isn't what I expected.
Instead, we're building fortifications in the sand while discussing military tactics.
It's almost normal. Whatever normal is.
I become aware of Charli before I look up. I notice the shift of her weight in the sand, the way her shadow moves at the edge of my peripheral vision.
When I finally glance over, she's standing with her arms loosely crossed, watching us. Her hair has come half out of whatever she tied it back with, and she hasn't bothered to fix it. She looks exactly like she used to on Saturday mornings. Before everything.
I make myself look back at Benjy, but it takes more effort than it should.
Benjy stands up and brushes sand off his knees, stepping back to admire our work.
"This one's perfect. The pirates will definitely fall for it because it's way harder to detect."
His confidence is absolute.
I smile and try to swallow the boulder lodged in my throat.
Benjy grabs his bucket and takes off running toward the water again.
I remain crouched in the sand, watching him move across the beach.
That’s my son.
The thought inches slowly but unmistakably. The kid running through the sand, chasing waves and filling a bucket with shells, is mine.
For the first time since I arrived in Mississippi, the constant countdown in the back of my mind goes quiet.
Seven days until deployment.
Right now, it seems distant.
Benjy races back toward us, breathless with excitement. His bucket clanks with shells and bits of driftwood as he drops to his knees beside the trap we built earlier.
“I found perfect decorations,” he announces, already arranging his treasures carefully around the edges. “Pirates love shiny things, so these shells will make them look closer.”
He works with intense focus, placing each shell exactly where he wants it.
When he’s satisfied, he leans back on his heels and looks up at me.
“Do you want to come back tomorrow with me to check if the pirates fell in overnight?”
The question is innocent, like it doesn’t carry any weight at all.
But it does.
I glance toward Charli without thinking. She stands a few feet away, her hands now in her pockets, watching us with the same careful attention she’s had all afternoon.
The answer isn’t entirely mine to give. For a moment none of us speak.
Benjy keeps looking at me, waiting patiently.
Like the answer is obvious.