Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Charli
The Held Breath: Just before the cut, a strange quiet settles inside the noise — the whole procession pausing inside itself before everything changes.
Benjy comes running back from the water's edge, sand stuck to his wet calves and his cheeks flushed from the sun. He's breathless from chasing birds along the shoreline.
"Mom, I'm hungry."
He plops down beside me on the sand, clapping the sand off his palms.
"Can we have hamburgers and French fries for dinner?"
For a second, I’m not sitting on this beach anymore. I’m twenty-three again, stretched out on a blanket in the backyard of Reeves’s house while he stands over the grill with a beer in his hand, arguing with me about the “correct” way to build a burger.
Charcoal and lighter fluid fill the air. Music drifts out of the kitchen. His voice carries over it.
Those nights felt endless. Like we had time to figure everything out. Like the future was ours to shape instead of something that would break us.
I look at him now, a few feet away, the same broad shoulders, the same way his hand curls around the back of his neck when he’s thinking.
Before I understood that Reeves Stone would never be able to give me forever.
"We'll see what we have at home," I tell Benjy, pushing the memory away. "Maybe it's time to head back. Does that work, Reeves? You can come hang out until your ride gets here."
Benjy nods and turns to Reeves, who's been quiet since he put his phone away.
"Are you going to eat dinner with us?"
The question hangs in the air. Reeves looks at me, and I watch his expression shift.
"I'm not sure if I'll have time."
Benjy's face falls just slightly. Not a dramatic disappointment, but the kind of quiet letdown that kids get when things they were looking forward to don't work out.
"Oh. Okay."
He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers, already moving on the way five-year-olds do. But I caught the moment of disappointment, and I know Reeves did, too.
The silence stretches between us. Reeves is looking out at the water, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else entirely.
This is good, I tell myself. He should leave. We need to get back to normal.
Except normal doesn’t look like this.
It doesn’t include the way Benjy lit up when Reeves fixed his treehouse ladder, or how easily they worked together on the pirate trap.
It doesn’t include the way I keep catching myself watching him.
The tilt of his head when he’s thinking.
The way he positions himself without realizing it, a quiet line between us and everything behind us.
Or the way he looks at Benjy, like he’s trying to hold on to him against his own nature.
Benjy stands and brushes the sand off his shorts. “Ok, Mommy. Let’s go. I’m starving.”
“Go grab your bucket and shovel,” I tell him, pointing toward the edge of the water. He takes off, and suddenly it’s just the two of us again, sitting in the sand with the last of the heat still clinging to the air.
Reeves watches him go. Then he exhales and looks over at me.
“You know,” he says, his voice casual in a way that feels almost deliberate, “I make a pretty good burger.”
For a second, I just stare at him.
The memory hits fast. His backyard. The grill. His voice carrying over music drifting out of the house while he argued with me about how to build the perfect burger.
I drag my attention back to him. To the way he’s watching me now, like he’s not entirely sure how that landed.
“Yeah,” I say. “I remember.”
“If the offer still stands.” His gaze flicks toward the water, then back to me. “I could stay. Crash on your sofa.”
“Of course. And I know Benjy will be over the moon. It’ll be nice.” The old version of me would have been snarkier and said whatever I had to keep him at a distance. I don’t.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It would.” Then, like he’s giving me a way out, “But if this is weird for you, I can totally go back to the city and come back in the morning. I don’t want to put y’all out.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, a little too fast. “We’ll just need to stop at Mickey’s on the way home. I don’t have anything for burgers.”
Benjy comes running back toward us, his bucket swinging wildly at his side. Reeves pulls out his phone and types quickly. I don’t ask what he’s canceling.
He pushes to his feet and offers me his hand.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine, firm and warm, and he pulls me up in one smooth motion. The shift brings me closer than I expect, my balance catching against him for half a second before I straighten.
It’s nothing. It’s barely anything.
But my body registers it anyway. The solid line of him, the heat of his skin, the familiar strength in his grip.
He lets go almost immediately, like he felt it too, and rolls his right shoulder as he steps back.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
I almost ask, but then I stop myself. The last thing I need to do is start noticing things about him again.
“Guess what, Benjy,” I say.
He skids to a stop in front of us.
“Reeves is making his famous burgers tonight.”
"Yay! I love famous burgers!"
He takes off. Reeves falls into step beside me as we follow.
We leave the beach as the sun starts dipping lower, painting everything in warm gold light. The air has that late afternoon coolness creeping in, the kind that makes you want to be somewhere cozy with good food and familiar voices.
"We'll need to walk on the sidewalk on the street instead of the path," I tell Reeves as we reach the crosswalk. "The store is halfway between here and the house."
I notice some light blue flecks of paint that didn't come out on the shoulder of his shirt. The sight of it sends a jolt of warmth and joy through me. An outward sign of him taking care of his son, even if it's fleeting.
"Sounds perfect."
Benjy skips ahead of us, turning around every few steps to walk backward while he talks.
"Do they have those hamburger buns with the sesame seeds? And can we get the thick bacon? PopPop says thick bacon makes a hamburger."
"We'll see what they have, baby."
The walk to Mickey’s takes us through the older part of Bay St. Louis, past houses with wide front porches and oak trees that have been here longer than any of us.
Benjy points out everything as we go, the yellow house with the tire swing, the fence where Mrs. Chen grows her tomatoes, the spot where he found a really good stick last month, circling back on details he’s already told me a dozen times but wants Reeves to hear.
Reeves listens to all of it, asking just enough questions to keep him going.
“That’s where my friend Paolo lives. He has a dog named Buster who can catch a Frisbee in his mouth.”
“That’s a good skill for a dog to have.”
“Paolo says he’s part Border Collie, which makes him really smart. Do you know about Border Collies?”
“I do. They’re working dogs. Bred to herd sheep.”
Benjy nods like this confirms an important fact and keeps talking, shifting into another story without missing a beat.
Reeves adjusts his pace to match him, steady and unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be. I catch it without meaning to, the way his attention stays locked on Benjy, the way he doesn’t rush him or talk over him.
It would be easy to miss, if I didn’t know him.
Or if I hadn’t spent years memorizing the way he gives his attention when it matters.
Mickey's Market sits on the corner of Harbor Road, exactly the way it has for the past twenty years. The parking lot is mostly empty except for a few pickup trucks and Mrs. Rodriguez's ancient Honda.
“I’ll grab a cart,” Reeves says as we approach the entrance.
“I can get it.”
“I’ve got it, Charli.”
He pulls a cart free and hands it to me, his fingers brushing mine for a second before he lets go. The gesture is easy, automatic. Familiar in a way I don’t have time to think about.
Benjy is already racing toward the doors, rattling off a list of things he wants before we even step inside.
“Let’s focus on burger stuff first,” I say, steering the cart toward the meat section. “We have to carry all of this home.”
The store is cool and quiet, the kind of end-of-day lull where every sound carries. Benjy drifts straight to the freezer case, pressing his hands against the glass.
“Mom, look. They have rocket pops.”
“After dinner, maybe.”
Reeves steps in beside me at the meat counter, close enough that I’m aware of him without looking. He studies the packages for a second, then lifts one.
“Eighty-twenty?”
“That works.”
He drops it into the cart, and when he shifts, his arm brushes mine again, light but deliberate enough that I notice.
I keep my hands on the handle and keep moving.
We move through the store together, quiet and efficient, like we’ve done this before.
We haven’t.
That’s what catches me off guard. Not the groceries or the conversation, but how easily we fall into step. The way he reaches for things without asking. The way I don’t question it.
“Benjy, stay where I can see you,” I call when he drifts toward the snack aisle.
“I’m just looking,” he says, already halfway down the row.
Reeves chuckles under his breath, and the sound unexpectedly takes me back to simpler times. Good times, not the fights and the pleas.
“Your PopPop likes those?” he asks.
“He pretends he doesn’t,” Benjy says. “But Mom catches him.”
Reeves smiles, and for a second, I see the version of him that used to lean across a counter and look at me like he had all night.
I look away first.
We keep moving. Buns. Cheese. Bacon. He reaches past me for a pack of slices, his hand skimming the edge of my wrist when I shift at the same time.
Neither of us says anything.
Benjy talks, filling the space with details about fries and what makes them “the really good kind,” and Reeves listens, answering him easily, but every now and then, I catch his attention shift back to me.
Quick. Controlled. Gone before I can meet it.
I push the cart toward the checkout, focusing on the list in my head instead of the way my awareness keeps drifting sideways.
This is temporary. One night doesn’t change anything.
It doesn’t rewrite the way this ended or what he chose.
But when Benjy grabs his hand as we step into line, talking about ice cream like this is an outing we do all the time, the sight of their fingers linked together tugs at me.
And this time, I don’t look away from it fast enough.
The cashier starts scanning our items, and I automatically reach for my purse.
My fingers find the zipper of my wallet just as Reeves’s hand moves past me.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly, sliding his card across the counter before I can even get my wallet fully open.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“It’s fine, Charli.”
“Reeves, really.”
“Food for all of us.” He keeps his attention on the conveyor belt as the cashier scans the last few items. “I can handle buying dinner.”
The words are casual, but there’s an undercurrent there. It isn’t stubborn pride or male posturing. It’s simply the quiet certainty in his voice, as if paying for groceries when we’re all eating together is the most obvious thing in the world.
“That’ll be thirty-eight fifty,” the cashier says, a tired-looking woman with graying hair and kind eyes.
I start to tuck my wallet back into my purse just as Reeves reaches toward the counter for the receipt, and in the narrow space beside the register, we move at the same time.
His arm brushes mine when I shift to step back, and for a brief second our bodies press together before either of us can adjust.
The contact barely lasts a second, but my body registers it instantly. I catch the faint scent of soap and salt from the beach, and it takes me a moment to realize he smells like my shower, like something that belongs in my house.
“You folks have a nice evening,” the cashier says, handing Reeves the receipt with a smile.
He folds the receipt without looking at it, drops it on the counter, and tucks two fifties into the tip jar by the register without breaking stride.
The cashier blinks.
Reeves doesn't notice. He's already turning toward the door, one hand finding the small of my back to steer me around the older couple coming inside.
“Thank you,” he answers easily, his voice perfectly normal, as if nothing unusual just happened.
As if he didn’t notice that we both stood there a beat longer than necessary.
Maybe he didn’t.
Reeves shifts slightly beside me, and when the automatic door opens, he rests his hand at the small of my back to guide me through. The touch is light, almost absentminded, just enough pressure to steer me around the older couple coming inside.
His hand drops away again once we’re clear of the doorway, but the brief warmth of it lingers.
The danger isn’t the groceries or the easy conversation or even the casual way Reeves’s hand found the small of my back.
The danger is how easily we slip into it.