Chapter 18 Charli
EIGHTEEN
Charli
The Breathing Tempo: The music is still the dirge, but something underneath has shifted: note held a beat too long, a rhythm that has begun to breathe.
I watch Reeves crouch beside our finished trap, his green eyes fixed on the sand instead of Benjy's proud contraption. Things have definitely shifted between us, although I can't put my finger on how or when.
Or what it means.
I just know whatever it is, it’s easier.
"Mom, look how good it blends in. You can't even tell it's there unless you know where to look."
"It's perfect, baby. You did amazing work."
Reeves finally stands, brushing sand from his hands, and I focus on his strong hands. I always loved his hands. His gaze drifts toward the water, then the dunes behind us.
"I should probably head out soon," he says casually. Too casually. "Told Ridge I'd stop by the docks today at some point."
My shoulders tense, but I keep my voice steady. "Of course. I'm sure you have things to handle. Thanks for helping Benjy with this."
Benjy stops his inspection and looks up at us. His face scrunches in confusion.
"You're leaving already? But we just finished the trap. Don't you want to see if it works?"
"The trap's going to be great, buddy. You built it right."
Reeves reaches down and tousles Benjy's hair. The gesture is gentle but brief.
Don't do this to him. Don't make him love you and then disappear.
But I don't say it out loud. I learned a long time ago that you can't make someone stay who's already mentally walking away.
Benjy's excitement dims slightly. "Are you coming back tomorrow to check it?"
The question hangs in the salt air between us. Reeves glances at me, then back at Benjy. He wants me to let him down for him.
"We'll see, okay? Depends on what happens with work stuff."
Work stuff.
I recognize the pattern because I lived it for four years.
"Benjy, why don't you go wash the sand off your hands in the water? Just at the edge."
He nods and jogs toward the shoreline, giving us a moment of privacy.
Reeves watches him go, jaw working slightly. Fighting some internal battle I can't see.
"You don't have to explain," I tell him quietly. "I get it. You're only here for so long."
His eyes snap back to mine. Sharp and defensive.
"Get what?"
He leans back on one hand in the sand, and I make the mistake of looking at him directly.
The sun has caught the back of his neck, and his forearm propping him up is glistening lightly from sweat and salt and effort.
For a moment, he looks so much like the version of him I loved that my heart aches.
I look back at Benjy instead, because if my eyes stay on him, it will become overwhelming.
“That this is a lot. It is,” I say without looking at him.
He doesn't deny it, which tells me everything.
The boy I fell in love with in college is still there, underneath the military precision and tactical awareness. He's still running from anything that starts to tether him to anything or anyone.
The shift hits harder than I expected.
Minutes ago, I let myself relax into the rhythm of the three of us working together. I watched with tenderness as Reeves guided Benjy's hands to pack sand just right. Seeing them both step back to admire their work. For a moment, it was natural.
This was always temporary. He has a life separate from ours halfway across the world.
"Hey!" Benjy's voice carries from the water's edge. "We haven't eaten lunch. My stomach's making noises."
Reeves runs a hand over the back of his neck.
"Can we go to that place that has the grilled cheese and the ice cream? Pretty please?" Benjy looks between us with that direct honesty that disarms adults.
"I mean, I haven't eaten a thing today," Reeves admits.
The opening is small but real. I take it carefully.
"There's a deli about a block up from the beach path. It's the one Benjy's talking about. Nothing fancy, but it does make a mean milkshake."
I keep my voice casual. I'm not sure if I want to push him away or try to hold him back. But I don't want Benjy to feel this abrupt leaving. Maybe sitting down for lunch can ease us into a natural end to our morning.
"It's quick if you're worried about time," I add.
Reeves glances toward the dunes where the path leads back to the street. Then at Benjy, who's watching him with hopeful green eyes that mirror his own.
"That sounds perfect. I'd love that. And I'd like your recommendation for the best milkshake for the road, Benjy. Deal?"
"Deal.” Benjy grins.
Reeves's mouth quirks up slightly. "Alright. Lunch and a milkshake it is. Then I'll probably have to take off after that."
I start gathering our beach bag, giving myself something to do with my hands. The disappointment blooms into a familiar ache.
Reeves follows as we head toward the path. His stride matches ours, which, with Benjy, is considerably slower than his normal speed.
The beach path winds through tall grass that whispers against our legs. Benjy bounds ahead, then circles back to us every few yards with new ideas.
Reeves walks beside me, hands loose at his sides, but eyes tracking Benjy's movements automatically.
"My favorite ice cream is Superman. What's yours?" Benjy asks Reeves.
"Superman, huh? I've never heard of that. Based on the name alone, it sounds interesting. Maybe it will be my new favorite."
"It's blue and red and yellow and delicious."
"That explains it."
"So what's your favorite? Before you try Superman."
"I'll have to go with Rocky Road. If you love marshmallows like I do, and a little crunch, it's perfection." Reeves puts his fingers and thumb to his mouth and makes a chef's kissing motion.
Benjy processes this seriously, nodding. "That sounds pretty good. I've never tried that."
Their conversation flows easily while I listen, watching Reeves slip back into easy conversation with him. It's almost like someone else invaded his body back there, and now he's back.
He's good with him. Naturally good.
We reach the crosswalk where the beach path meets Harbor Street. Cars drift past in the sleepy midday rhythm of a small coastal town.
I start to reach for Benjy's hand out of habit, but he's already stepped toward Reeves.
"How many cheeses do you like on your grilled cheese?"
Benjy's small fingers curl around Reeves's hand as he continues talking. The gesture happens so simply that Benjy doesn't even pause in his peppering of questions.
Reeves glances down at their joined hands, and a softness crosses his face. It passes quickly, but I catch it. His fingers tighten around Benjy’s, steady and sure, the muscles in his forearm shifting as he guides him toward the crosswalk.
"I'm going to go with three. Too much, and it's too heavy. Not enough, and the bread overwhelms."
They step into the street together, and I have to deliberately fight tears that well up in my eyes. I’ve always hoped for someone to come into our lives to be this for Benjy. I never imagined it could be Reeves.
My feet stay planted on the curb for a beat too long. His hand is still wrapped around Benjy’s when he glances back at me.
Stop it. I can't cling to that. I can't let Benjy cling to that. Reeves would never be able to stay longer than a day trip here or there.
"Mom? You coming?"
Both of them have stopped on the other side of the street. Benjy waves me over while Reeves waits patiently, not commenting on my momentary hesitation.
I cross quickly, catching up as they approach Margie's Deli.
The lunch crowd has thinned, but the small space still hums with conversation and the sounds of sandwich assembly behind the counter. We claim a table near the window where Benjy can watch boats in the harbor while he studies the menu.
"Grilled cheese with a side of barbeque chips, right?" I ask him.
"What are you getting?" Benjy directs the question to Reeves.
"Probably the roast beef. With mustard and pickles. And a side of grilled cheese."
They both laugh. Then Benjy looks at me. "I want roast beef, too. With mustard and pickles. And a side of grilled cheese."
Reeves raises an eyebrow at me. "That okay with his stomach?"
The question surprises me. Most people assume parents make food decisions without input. But he's checking instead of assuming.
"He can handle it. I'm not sure he can finish it all, but that's okay."
While we wait for our order, Benjy and Reeves color on the menu. I notice Reeves's tongue sticks out of the side of his mouth slightly whenever he colors. Just like Benjy's. How did I never notice that he did that before?
Maybe because we never colored together.
An older couple at the next table glances over at us, smiling at Benjy's animated questions.
They see a family. A Dad indulging his son's curious questions while Mom watches fondly. The assumption sits strangely in my gut. It's warm and unsettling at the same time.
Our sandwiches arrive and Benjy takes a careful bite of his roast beef, chewing thoughtfully.
We all talk easily, telling funny stories and laughing. It's a good lunch. An amazing lunch.
Benjy finishes half his sandwich and slides out of his chair.
"I want to go see the ice cream flavors."
He wanders toward the front counter where the glass window displays each of the ice cream tubs, leaving Reeves and me sitting across from each other in sudden quiet.
I watch Benjy examine the case with serious concentration, pointing at different flavors while debating their merits with himself. He does this every time, and then always ends up going with the superman. I think it's the colors and the name, not the taste.
"He's got strong opinions about food," Reeves says.
"About everything. He thinks through his choices."
"Gets that from you."
Does he? Or does he get it from the man sitting across from me? I don't voice the question. Some observations are better kept inside.
A painter works near the front of the deli, touching up pale blue trim around the ceiling. His ladder stretches tall beside the counter, several open paint cans balanced on a small platform near the top.
Benjy drifts closer to watch the brush strokes, fascinated by the careful technique. He's always been drawn to people working with their hands, probably from all those afternoons helping his grandfather in the garage.
"Benjy, stay clear of the ladder," I call softly.
He nods but continues watching, hands clasped behind his back in that thoughtful pose he gets when studying something interesting.
The painter dips his brush and stretches to reach a corner, completely focused on keeping his lines straight. Benjy steps sideways for a better angle, bumping the ladder base with his shoulder.
The aluminum frame rocks slightly.
"Benjy—"
Reeves moves before I finish the word. His chair scrapes back and he crosses the small space in three quick strides, wrapping his arms around Benjy's waist and pulling him backward just as the ladder tilts further.
The sudden movement jolts the platform above. One of the paint cans tips over the edge and plummets downward, striking Reeves squarely on the shoulder before splashing pale blue paint down the front of his t-shirt.
The entire deli goes quiet.
Reeves stands there dripping, arms still protective around Benjy, paint streaking across his back and arms.
Benjy stares up at him with wide eyes for a long moment. Then he bursts into delighted laughter.
"You look like the bad guy from Home Alone!"
The painter scrambles down his ladder, face flushed with embarrassment.
"Oh man, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt? That was completely my fault for not securing the platform better."
The deli owner rushes over with an armload of paper towels, shaking her head.
"I told Miguel to move those paint cans down before lunch rush. This is on us, not you folks."
Reeves releases Benjy and accepts the towels, dabbing at the worst of the mess off his shoulder without much success. He's covered and I'm pretty sure his shirt and probably shorts are ruined.
Benjy, meanwhile, doesn't have a single drop on him.
Reeves must have turned his body when he grabbed him, pulling him in tight and taking the full splash himself.
"It's fine. Just paint. No harm done."
"Your shirt is ruined," the owner insists. "We'll pay for cleaning or replacement, whatever you need."
"Really, it's not a problem. Accidents happen."
His voice stays calm and reassuring even while pale blue paint drips from his earlobe onto his shoulder. The same steady tone he probably uses to manage crisis situations in much more dangerous circumstances.
Benjy circles him, examining the paint coverage with scientific interest.
"It's everywhere! Even in your hair a little bit. You might want to go jump in the ocean."
"Thanks for that assessment, buddy."
Reeves is almost smiling despite being covered in wet paint, his shirt darkening where it clings to his firm pecs and shoulders. The tension from earlier has completely disappeared, replaced by this moment of unexpected humor.
I watch him comfort the worried painter and assure the owner that everything is fine, all while looking like he stepped out of a cartoon disaster.
The paint soaks through his shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his chest and down his abdomen, outlining muscle that has no business being this distracting right now.
Oh. This is a problem.
"Reeves." I stand and grab more towels from the counter. "You can't drive back to New Orleans like that. The paint will stick to everything in your truck."
He looks down at himself as if just realizing the practical implications.
"Yeah. This might be an issue."
"Come back to the house," I tell him. "It's closer to walk there than to our spot on the beach. You can rinse off, and I'll see if I can get the paint out before it sets."
"You don't have to do that. I can figure something out. Maybe Benjy's right, and jumping in the ocean will do the trick."
"Well, first of all, no. You're not killing our sea life with latex. And second of all, are you going to then get in your truck completely wet and covered in paint? Bad idea. Come on."
Benjy bounces on his toes beside us, delighted by this turn of events.
Reeves glances between us, jaw working slightly. I can see him calculating alternatives, looking for an exit that doesn't exist.
He's trapped, and he knows it.