Chapter 24 Charli
TWENTY-FOUR
Charli
The Release: After the cut, mourners look at one another. Some laugh. Some cry. In New Orleans, most do both at the same time.
The hallway is way too small for two adults to stand in it for any extended amount of time without touching. Reeves is close enough that I’m aware of every inch of space between us, the quiet weight of him after the story he just finished reading.
Neither of us says anything until I move.
“Should we get out of this dark, awkward hallway before one of us accidentally leans on the light switch?”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that.
“Surely there is a less awkward place for us to go.”
We move at the same time, stepping toward the kitchen. The house is different now that Benjy is asleep. We no longer have him to ease the tension between us.
I lean against the counter while Reeves pulls his arms behind his back and stretches.
"I've noticed you seem to favor your left shoulder. Are you injured?"
He looks a little surprised that I asked or even noticed. I quickly add, "I'm an occupational therapist. I notice these things."
He huffs out a quiet breath, like he’s deciding whether to brush it off or answer honestly.
“Old injury.”
“That’s the official diagnosis?”
His mouth twitches. “Pretty much.”
I tilt my head toward his shoulder. “Does it bother you all the time or just when you move a certain way?”
He shifts his arm slightly, rolling the joint once before letting it drop again.
“Certain movements. Overhead stuff mostly.”
“Lifting?”
“Pulling. Reaching.”
That tracks with what I’ve been seeing. The way he compensated when he helped me up at the beach, or the subtle shift when he was reaching up in the tree house.
“Rotator cuff?” I ask.
He glances at me again, more curious this time. “You’re good.”
“I work with injuries all day. Typically, mine are for babies, but I understand a little how the body moves and responds.”
He leans one hip against the counter across from me.
“Helicopter fast-rope training a few years back,” he says. “Line snapped loose, and I caught the weight wrong.”
My stomach tightens before I can stop it. “That sounds… bad.”
“It’s been worse.”
“Do you still have full range?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly isn’t the same as yes.”
His mouth tilts again.
“You always this persistent with your patients?”
“Only when they’re pretending there isn’t a problem.”
That gets a real laugh out of him before he puts back on his serious face. I can tell this injury bothers him.
“It’s manageable,” he says. “Just likes to remind me it’s there.”
“I imagine in your line of work, if you never healed properly, you keep re-injuring it.”
He hesitates just long enough that I know I guessed right.
“Occupational hazard.”
I fold my arms across my chest.
“You know the human body isn’t designed to just power through damage forever.”
“Funny,” he says. “That’s usually been the job description.”
I study the way he holds that shoulder again.
“You could probably strengthen the surrounding muscles and take some strain off the joint,” I say. “Stability work. Controlled movement.”
“Are you giving me homework?”
“Free advice.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“I’m serious. I'd be happy to take a look more closely, or send you some exercises to help strengthen the area around the shoulder to better support it."
For a moment, he just watches me, as if he’s trying to decide if he wants to take the bait. I may not have been in his life for the last six years, but I know Reeves Stone well enough to know he doesn't take help easily.
“I might have to take you up on some of your suggestions if you're offering.”
The acceptance catches me slightly off guard, even though I meant the offer.
“Of course,” I say. “Tell me how you want me to help you.”
His gaze drops briefly to the counter between us, then back up.
“Guess I’m not used to someone offering to fix me instead of telling me to tough it out.”
Neither of us says anything after that for a few seconds. How do we not know how to be alone together?
The dishwasher hums behind me, and I hear a car passing slowly down the street outside. Reeves shifts his weight and rolls his shoulder once.
I push away from the counter.
“Want to step outside for a bit?” I ask. “It’s a nice night.”
He glances toward the back door, then back at me.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
Before heading out, I open the refrigerator and glance at him. "Beer? Or I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere."
"Beer's great."
I pull out two bottles of Abita and hand him one. Our fingers brush when he takes it, just like they did when I handed him his clean clothes earlier.
Stop noticing things like that.
But I can't stop. Because everything about tonight has been different. The easy way he talked to Benjy. How he fixed the treehouse without being asked. The quiet concentration on his face when he read that bedtime story.
I twist open my beer and take a sip, watching him do the same. I love the way his strong hand twists it off so easily, how the veins run up his tattooed arm.
"Patio?"
He nods and follows me to the back door. I flip off the outside light and step onto the deck, letting the warm night air wash over me.
There are two chairs and a little table where Benjy and I eat breakfast sometimes when the weather's nice. String lights hang along the edge of the roof, casting soft circles of light across the space.
I settle into the chair across from Reeves, the metal still warm from the day's heat. The grill beside us ticks as it cools, and I can smell the lingering scent of charcoal and grilled meat.
"Benjy's two-burger request." I shake my head. "That was funny. I think he was showing off for you."
"He's getting ready for his teenage years." Reeves takes a long pull from his beer. "It takes a lot of protein to grow a boy into a man."
The string lights cast gentle shadows across his face. He looks different out here. Less guarded than he was on Thursday night when we met for the first time.
"This wasn't what I expected." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Reeves glances at me. "What do you mean?"
"When you asked to meet him, I imagined this would be more formal. Maybe a brief time on the beach, and I figured that would be it."
"Yeah." He runs his thumb along the bottle label. "I wasn't sure what to expect, to be honest, but this whole thing has knocked me on my ass. Pardon my French."
"When have you ever apologized for cursing? Benjy's asleep."
"I don't know. I forget sometimes I'm not in the desert with a bunch of crass men. I want to be respectful."
The admission hangs between us. There’s an honesty and unguardedness in his voice that grabs hold of me and won't let go.
"I didn't know what it would feel like," I say. "Watching you two together."
"What did it feel like?"
I think about Benjy's hand slipping into Reeves’s at the deli, the way Reeves crouched down to Benjy's eye level when explaining things, and how naturally they moved around each other on the beach.
"Right. It felt right."
I shouldn't have said that.
But Reeves doesn't pull away from the words. He just nods, like he understands.
"I need to ask you something." His voice stays steady, but his grip tightens on the bottle. "The letter. Did you really think I got it and just ignored it?"
"I left it on your windshield. We always communicated like that after a blow-up. So, yeah, I didn't have any reason to believe you didn't."
"I never saw it."
"I know that now."
The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet where both people are thinking the same thing.
"I fucked up." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. "I should have opened it."
"I could have tried calling again. Or reached out to Ridge or your dad."
"You shouldn't have had to chase me down to tell me I had a son."
Finally being able to talk to him like this, about our son, doesn't feel heavy or accusatory like I always imagined it would be. We're two adults acknowledging mistakes without trying to wound each other.
"We both handled it wrong," I say. "But we were kids, honestly. We didn't know what the fuck we were doing."
"Were we?"
The question catches me. Because looking at him now, watching how he moved through this evening, I'm not sure I know the answer.
"I think we've both grown in the six years since we were together. I can tell you have. And I like to think I have, too. I'm a mom, now, and I own my own business. I don't have time to be petty and an emotional basket case."
"You're a great mom, Charli. I love watching you with him. He's a lucky kid to have you."
"I feel like the lucky one."
The night grows darker around us. Crickets start their evening chorus, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once before going quiet.
Reeves shifts in his chair, the metal creaking softly. He's studying his beer bottle like it holds answers.
"I’ve been meaning to ask… what does Benjy know about his father? Anything?"
He pauses a moment and runs his thumb across his bottom lip. The question I've been waiting for. The one I knew would come, eventually.
"It's okay if the answer is nothing. I just wondered if he's ever asked."
"He knows you're someone important from my past. He knows I cared about you."
"Does he ever ask questions?"
"Sometimes. He'll mention other kids talking about their dads. But it's not like he realizes he’s different. He has my dad. He has consistency."
Reeves nods, his jaw tight. "I don't want to mess that up."
"What do you want?"
He's been quiet for so long, I wonder if he heard me. A moth circles the porch light, bumping against the glass with soft tapping sounds.
"I don't know what the right answer is," he says finally. "But I know I don't want to show up and then vanish. I know I don't want him wondering where I went."
The weight in his voice surprises me.
"He had a good day today. That doesn't disappear no matter what happens next."
"You think?"
"I watched him with you. The way he lit up when you helped with the pirate trap, how he kept asking questions about your tattoos. That will stay with him, especially once he knows you're his father."
Reeves takes a long drink, then sets the bottle on the table between us.
"Tell me about the last five years."
The change of subject catches me, but I understand what he's asking.
"I built a life that’s steady. Work I'm good at. A house that's ours. Routines that make sense."
"Happy?"
"Content. Most days."
"What about the hard days?"
I think about sleepless nights when Benjy was sick. Financial stress when the practice was starting. Moments when I questioned every decision I'd made.
"We handle them as they come and don't wallow too much. That's what seems to work best for us."
"You always could handle things."
"Not always. I used to think I needed someone else to feel complete."
He furrows his brow. "And now?"
"Now I know I can stand on my own. Anything else that comes our way, I know I can handle it.”
The moth gives up on the light and flutters away into the darkness.
"What about you?" I ask. "Six years of moving around. Did you find the freedom and adrenaline you so craved?"
"I learned that motion isn't the same as healing." He runs his thumb along the bottle's condensation. "But it does make it easier not to sit still long enough for certain things to catch up with you."
I study him across the small patio table. "Did you ever figure out what those things are?"
He lifts his gaze to mine.
"I try not to give them that much attention."
"And why is that?"
He holds my eyes for a long moment before answering.
"Because the things that matter most are usually the ones that hurt the worst when you lose them."
The night grows quiet around us. The porch light hums softly overhead, and somewhere down the street, a car passes.
Reeves doesn't look away.
For someone who has spent his entire adult life in constant motion, he is very still right now. His forearms rest on his knees, hands loose, and he's watching me with that focused attention he gives everything that matters to him.
I used to love that about him. I’m realizing I still do.
I'm aware of exactly how much space is between us. How little of it there is.
I should go inside.