Chapter 15 Reeves
FIFTEEN
Reeves
The March: The procession does not pause. To stop moving is to let the weight settle somewhere it cannot be carried back out again.
The crawdad boil is winding down around me, and I realize I never actually sat down to eat.
At some point, Lydia shoved a beer into my hand and told me to make myself useful by staying out of her kitchen.
Benjy talked enough for three people, Charli mostly kept quiet, and Ben cracked shells with the kind of patience that makes it look like he could sit at this table until midnight and never once think about leaving.
Somehow, I am still here.
That hadn’t been the plan.
I should have stayed long enough to be polite, thanked them for dinner, and gotten back on the road to New Orleans before dark.
Instead, I’ve spent the last hour leaning against the kitchen counter, listening to Benjy explain why pirates would always go after the shiniest shells while Lydia cleared plates around us like I belonged in the room.
The whole thing moves with an easy rhythm. Benjy climbs in and out of his chair. Ben reaches for another napkin. Lydia folds up the newspaper under the empty crawdad shells and tells Charli to leave the dishes alone. Nobody is rushing. Nobody is checking the time.
Charli finally looks up when Lydia nudges her away from the sink, and for a second, her attention locks in on me instead. It’s quick, almost nothing, but my stomach drops before I can do a damn thing about it.
This is the kind of life she always wanted. A place where people stay because there is no reason to leave.
My hand tightens around the beer bottle, and the movement sends a sharp line of pain up my arm to my shoulder. What the fuck?
I need to go.
The thought is absolute and immediate. Not because anyone here has made me unwelcome. If anything, that is the problem.
I set the bottle down on the counter and push away from it.
“I’d better hit the road.”
The words come automatically, a protective instinct kicking in before I sink too far into a comfort that doesn’t belong to me.
"You don't have to rush off," Lydia says.
"Long drive back to New Orleans. I don’t want to impose any longer than I already have. Appreciate the beer."
True. All of it is true.
Charli's eyes flick to mine across the table. She knows this pattern. She's watched me do this before. The corner of her mouth tightens just slightly, like she’s already decided how this goes.
"You sure?" Ben asks. "Coffee's already brewing."
Coffee means another hour. Another hour means getting comfortable. Getting comfortable means staying.
"Thanks, but I should go."
I'm already standing, muscle memory taking over. Always polite. Already halfway out.
Before I can take another step, Benjy looks up from his plate.
"But what about our night recon? Aren't we going to see if there are any footprints?"
His green eyes are wide and serious. Not whining or pleading, but innocent and trusting.
"Recon?" Ben asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Pirates," Benjy says. "We built a trap today. I wanted to go back and see how it's doing. Check if any pirates have been snooping around."
He says it like it matters. Like it’s real.
I stand there, caught between the door and an impossible situation I didn’t think through.
The silence stretches. Everyone waits.
Benjy's face falls.
"Maybe another night?"
Even a five-year-old can hear the hesitation in that.
"But you said pirates move more at night. You said we should check again after dark."
Did I say that? I think he asked, but I never answered.
I replay the afternoon. Building the trap, explaining how pirates would avoid daylight and how they'd wait for darkness to move their treasure.
Fuck. I did say that.
To him, it wasn't casual conversation. It was intel. A mission briefing.
"It's getting late, buddy. Past your bedtime, probably." I look up at Charli, thinking she wants me the hell out of here. She is pushing around a piece of sausage on her plate.
Ben suddenly stands. "You know what? I was about to run these shells back to the water anyway. Can't leave them in the trash overnight or the whole house will smell like low tide."
Lydia immediately jumps on the idea.
"Perfect. I've got the kitchen under control. Y'all go handle that before it gets too dark to see where you're walking."
She starts stacking plates with renewed energy, like she's been waiting for an excuse to shoo everyone outside.
Benjy straightens in his chair, eyes lighting up.
"Yes! And we can check the trap while we're there. It's right on the way to the water."
He turns to me, hopeful again.
I glance toward Charli. She's watching this unfold with careful neutrality. She doesn't push either way, but her eyebrows lift slightly, a silent signal.
Your choice. I'm not stopping you.
Benjy practically vibrates beside me, waiting for my answer.
One more hour to check the hole in the sand, which is surely gone now if the tide is up, and then leave.
Simple.
"Alright. Quick recon."
Benjy pumps his fist in the air.
"Yes! I'll get the flashlight."
He scrambles down from his chair and races toward a kitchen drawer, pulling out a small LED light. I can tell this is an activity they do often.
Ben chuckles, adjusting his grip on the shell bucket.
"Better grab jackets. Gets cool by the water once the sun goes down."
As we head toward the door, Benjy bounces on his toes beside me.
"Can we build a bigger trap tomorrow? I think we need more branches. And maybe some string to tie them together. Do you know how to tie navy knots?"
Tomorrow.
He's already planning it before we've finished tonight.
I follow them outside, the evening air cutting through the heat of the house. The porch light throws long shadows across the yard, waves breaking somewhere out past the dark.
One hour. Then I'm gone.
Benjy stops dead when he spots my Hummer in the driveway.
"Whoa. Can I ride in your big army truck?"
His eyes go wide, flashlight forgotten in his hand. The vehicle towers over Ben's pickup, all black angles and reinforced steel.
Kid's got good instincts.
"That's up to your mom."
The words come automatically. I look to Charli, passing the decision where it belongs.
"It's only a few blocks, Bud. Don't you want to walk there?"
"No way. I want to ride in that." He points to the Hummer, already halfway sold.
Ben hefts the shell bucket toward his truck. "I'll take the pickup anyway. These shells need to ride in the bed, not inside where they can stink up the cab."
He glances between the Hummer and me.
Charli studies my face for a long moment, reading things there I don’t want her to see.
“We can ride with Reeves. Just to the beach and back.”
Her voice stays neutral, but her eyes don’t move.
She's coming too. No way she lets him go alone.
"Yes!" Benjy races toward the passenger door, jumping to reach the handle. "This is so cool!"
The door weighs more than he expects. I reach over to help him pull it open, gritting through the dull ache in my shoulder, and he scrambles inside before anyone can change their minds.
While Charli walks around the front of the truck, I slide into the driver’s seat and flip open the center console, shaking two ibuprofen into my palm.
Same routine as the last few weeks.
They go down dry before she reaches the passenger door. I close the console and start the engine, letting it rumble to life as she moves into the seat beside me.
She twists around to check on Benjy, who’s already flipping vents and digging through compartments like he owns the place. He leans forward, and she reaches back, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Make sure you buckle up, Ben. Okay?”
For a second, I watch them. The cab that usually feels wide and open closes in around us.
Benjy leans between the seats, pointing at every button and gauge like he’s found a control panel.
"What's this one do? And this? Is that for the radio?"
"That's climate control. Radio's here. This changes the drive mode."
I show him, keeping it simple.
He absorbs every word, locked in.
"Sit back and buckle up, Benjy. I mean it. Or we walk."
He scoots back, and the click of the seatbelt sounds.
I put the truck in drive and pull away from the curb. As we turn down the narrow road toward the beach, Charli leans forward to redirect the air vent. The back of her hand brushes my forearm before she stills again.
The contact is quick, but it goes deep. Heat lingers where her skin touched mine, familiar in a way I’ve spent years not thinking about.
I turn the air off without looking at her, already knowing she’s cold.
Some things don't change. I wish more of them had so I wouldn’t still be here fighting the urge to reach over and pull her closer to me.
She smells like salt and clean soap. No perfume. The same as before.
Benjy keeps talking from the back seat, stretching forward as far as the seatbelt allows.
“Why is it so tall?”
“So it can go over big things.”
“Whoa. Did you drive it in the desert?”
“Not this one. One like it.”
Charli shifts when I take the curve a little tighter than I meant to. Her knee bumps the console, her shoulder brushing mine as she reaches back to tell him to sit.
Neither of us pulls away right away.
The beach parking area is gravel and scattered shells. I pull in next to Ben's truck as he's already hauling the bucket toward the water.
Benjy bolts out before I kill the engine.
"Come on! The trap should be right over here!"
His flashlight cuts wild arcs across the sand.
“He gets like this right before bed,” she says. “Extra energy out of nowhere.”
Charli falls into step beside me like there isn’t six years sitting between us.
Last week I didn’t know the kid existed. Now I’m walking a dark beach with him and the woman I used to share a life with, like I never left.
I keep my eyes ahead.
We follow Benjy’s voice, flashlights cutting steady paths through the dark. The tide has come in. Water laps at sand that was dry this afternoon.
I take a few longer steps and reach him first. The trap is gone. Just smooth sand and the slow push of waves.
His shoulders drop, flashlight dipping.
“It’s gone. We built it wrong.”
Shit.
I crouch beside him and sweep my beam along the wet sand. “See where the water comes up to?”
He nods.
“The tide rolled in after we left.”
He looks at the water, thinking. “So it got washed away?”
“Yeah.”
His mouth tightens. “Then the pirates got away.”
“Not necessarily.”
His head snaps toward me.
“They would’ve seen the tide coming in. Nobody leaves anything where the water’s about to take it.”
He follows that, flashlight lifting.
“So they moved it.”
“Smart pirates would.”
His beam swings toward the higher sand.
“So it might be up there?”
“Exactly where I’d move it.”
He straightens, already moving.
“Come on. Let’s check.”
Charli’s flashlight stays steady on us. She doesn’t interrupt, but I’m aware of her attention, the quiet way she’s taking in the entire exchange between Benjy and me.
“We should build the next one higher up,” Benjy decides, pointing toward the dunes. “Where the water can’t reach it.”
“Good thinking.”
He’s already moving again, sweeping the sand with his flashlight, the disappointment from a minute ago completely replaced with a new plan.
Ben’s boots crunch across the gravel behind us, the empty bucket swinging at his side.
“Shells are back where they belong. Y’all find any pirate activity?”
“They moved the trap,” Benjy calls out. “But that means they’re smart. We’re gonna build a better one tomorrow.”
Ben chuckles and falls into step beside Charli.
“Tomorrow, huh?”
Tomorrow.
Benjy jogs back toward us, his flashlight bouncing with each step.
“Can we bring more supplies tomorrow? Maybe some rope? And bigger sticks?”
He looks straight at me, waiting for the answer.
He isn’t really asking about rope or sticks. He’s asking whether I’ll come back.