Chapter 32 Charli
THIRTY-TWO
Charli
When the Saints Go Marching In: The anthem of the New Orleans second line. It is not a song about death, but about arrival.
I stand in the hallway, one bare foot balanced on the cool hardwood, the other still on the worn rug Benjy dropped by his door this morning. The house settles around me with those small creaks that only come after dark.
Through the gap where his door isn't quite closed, I watch.
Reeves sits on Benjy's twin bed, his frame taking up most of the narrow mattress. His shoulders curve forward to fit the small space, and the tank book looks tiny in his hands. His voice carries just enough to reach me.
He took off the camo shirt and is wearing the light tan t-shirt tucked into his camo pants. The shirt pulls tightly across his broad shoulders, and the sleeves hug his inked biceps tightly.
He is a stunning man.
"The M1A2 Abrams weighs sixty-eight tons," he reads, pausing when Benjy shifts under his dinosaur sheets. "That's about the same as twelve elephants."
"Twelve?" Benjy's voice is soft, already thick with sleep.
"Give or take." Reeves turns the page carefully, holding it so Benjy can see the picture. "The armor is made of special materials that can stop most anything."
I should announce myself and step into the room. This is my house, my son, my bedtime routine. The private tenderness keeps me right here in the shadows, watching this scene unfold without me.
Benjy's eyes drift closed, then pop open again. "Do they have bathrooms inside?"
"They do. And air conditioning." Reeves's answer comes without hesitation, like he expected the question. "The crew can stay inside for days if they need to."
"Days?" But Benjy's voice fades on the word.
Reeves keeps reading anyway, his tone low and even. When he reaches the end of a page, he glances down at Benjy's face. The book stays open in his lap, but he doesn't turn the page yet.
Benjy's breathing shifts, deeper now, but his tiny, perfect fingers still grip the edge of his blanket.
Reeves reaches over and adjusts the sheet where it's bunched around Benjy's shoulder. The gesture is automatic, like he's done so many nights before.
He closes the book but doesn't move. He sits there in the dim glow of the green frog nightlight, watching Benjy sleep. His hand rests on the mattress near Benjy's arm, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth.
Minutes pass. I count my own heartbeats, waiting for him to leave.
When Reeves finally stands, he does it slowly, seeming to test the floorboards for creaks. He sets the book on the nightstand next to the cup of water and the small flashlight Benjy insists on keeping there.
Turning toward the door, he stops before walking out when his eyes find mine through the crack.
He opens it the rest of the way. Neither of us speaks, but there's no awkwardness in the silence.
I step back to give him room. My shoulder brushes his arm as I reach past him to pull Benjy's door closed. The latch clicks as softly as a whisper.
We move through the house without discussion. My bare feet know every area that creaks. Reeves follows closely until we're out of the hall.
In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and hold up an Abita beer. He nods, neither of us needing words. I grab two and head toward him.
The patio door slides open with barely a sound, and the night air is cooler now, the heat of the day finally breaking. I hand him a beer as I drop into one of the wicker chairs, and he takes it without hesitation.
He’s still here. Second night in a row. I didn't necessarily invite him to stay. It just keeps getting extended through Benjy's pleas. But if I'm completely honest with myself, I don't want him to leave.
And that scares the shit out of me.
“Nice move earlier,” I say, twisting the cap off my bottle. “Buying him that tank book knowing he’d make you read it tonight.”
He huffs out a quiet breath, tipping the bottle back for a sip. “That wasn’t a strategy.”
“Sure it wasn’t, Lieutenant.”
His eyes flick to mine. “It’s Petty Officer.”
I give him a lazy salute and smile.
“Kid wanted the book.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Not a whole lot of ways that plays out.”
I shake my head, but there’s no real bite to it. “You could’ve said no.”
“Could’ve.”
He doesn’t elaborate. And for once, I don’t push him to.
It’s different this afternoon and tonight. The space between us doesn’t tighten the way it used to when we didn’t land on the same side of an argument.
“Kids ask for things all the time, you know,” I say, more out of habit than anything. “You can’t always give in.”
His gaze flicks to me, steady but not challenging. “Yeah, I know that.”
A week of spending time together doesn’t always. I know that. I'm secretly happy for him to indulge Benjy like this. He loves the attention, and it's good for both of them.
He takes another drink, then adds, quieter, “I’ve got some catching up to do.”
Hearing him admit that tugs at my heartstrings.
I lean back in my chair, letting the cool air hit my skin. “He liked that. You reading to him.”
Reeves glances over. “You think so?”
“He was hanging on every word,” I say. “You didn’t talk to him like he was five. You talked to him like he could keep up.”
Reeves sets his bottle on the table, his thumb dragging once along the label. “He can.”
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “I know. He's a sharp kid."
There’s a pause, crickets chirping in the background.
“He’s always been like that,” I add. “Once something clicks, he wants to understand all of it. Not just the surface.”
Reeves nods once.
I glance at him, then back out toward the dark yard. “He gets that from you.”
That’s the closest I’ve come to saying it out loud to him.
Not only the curiosity, but the way Benjy locks onto something and doesn’t let go. He wants to understand how things work, not just accept them.
Reeves doesn’t answer right away.
He rolls the bottle between his palms, the glass catching what little light spills from the kitchen window.
"I should probably head back soon." His voice carries that familiar note of preparation, the one that used to make my stomach drop. "You've got work tomorrow, and Benjy has school."
The words form before I can stop them. Before I can think through all the reasons this is complicated.
"You could stay again."
It's simple and direct, with no misunderstanding of what that means.
I take a sip of beer to keep from adding qualifiers or explanations. The taste is bitter, the beer now warmer than I normally like it.
He still hasn't said anything and I can't help myself.
"I mean, if you want to see what mornings actually look like around here. Benjy would lose his mind if he got to ride to school in your Hummer."
The pause stretches longer. Long enough for me to wonder if I just crossed a line we weren't ready for.
This isn't just about an impossible situation that makes it make more sense for him to stay. This is me opening a door I've kept locked for six years. This is me saying maybe, possibly, we can figure out what this looks like day by day instead of visit by visit.
Reeves sets his bottle down on the table. The small sound echoes in the quiet.
“You sure?” he asks.
“About which part?” I glance at him. “You staying, or him loving it?”
A hint of a smile pulls at his mouth.
“Both.”
“The answer’s still yes.”
He watches me for another second, like he’s measuring what he says next.
“I don’t want to make this weird,” he says.
I let out a huff. “The only weird part is us acting like this isn’t already happening.”
“I’ll take you up on it, then.” He pushes to his feet. “I’ve got a bag in the truck.”
“Convenient,” I say, a small smile slipping out.
“Been at the Creston House some this week,” he adds, like that explains showing up with an overnight bag.
I nod. “I remember that place. Your dad’s bunker out there was wild.”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
"Want another beer?"
"Sure."
He walks back out with two beers in his hands. He screws off the top of one and hands it to me before sitting down. I notice how he protects that right shoulder.
"Would you mind if I take a look at your shoulder?"
At first he looks at me like I've crossed a line, then he takes a sip of his beer and agrees.
I stand and step closer, pressing lightly along the joint with my fingertips, checking for swelling or spots that make him flinch. He doesn’t pull away, but he straightens under my hand, like he’s bracing through it.
"Lift your arm for me."
He does, slower than he probably realizes.
"Have you been icing it? And you should be stretching it regularly, not just pushing through workouts."
"I did a lot of icing after surgery, but I don’t take the time anymore. Maybe I should."
"You’ll feel the difference if you do."
"Yeah, I’ll be better about it." He smiles and points his beer at me. "You’re good at this. Tell me more about what you do, Doc."
"Well, first, I’m not a doctor. I’m a pediatric occupational therapist." I pull my legs in. "I work with kids who need help with basic fine motor skills, like developmental delays and sensory processing."
"That’s really cool. You always wanted to work with kids."
"I did." The memory surfaces easily. "Remember when I used to think I wanted to open a preschool?"
"I do. You had it mapped out. If I remember correctly, weren't you working through getting certified to do that?"
I laugh, surprised he remembers that level of detail. "I actually did get my license. But once I considered other ways to work with little ones, I decided to go to therapy school instead."
"That’s… impressive." There's genuine pride in his voice. I’m taken aback. He cares about what I'm doing.
"How long have you been doing it?"
"School was another three years, but I started interning after my first year, so technically almost five years. I had Benjy in there, so I had to cut back some on the double duty, but I started my company three years ago this November."
"What's that like? Being your own boss?"