CHAPTER 25 Reid
Reid
Reid sat at his kitchen table surrounded by self-help books.
Jesus Christ.
Alone in the wreckage of his marriage with a pop psychology book open in front of him and the humiliating realization that he had been emotionally stunted his entire life.
Insecurity.
A poison that had grown inside him until it had destroyed the woman he loved.
His stomach turned.
God.
Reid leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes briefly.
The house still didn’t feel real without her in it.
No coffee to make for her in the morning. No reason to leave the porch light on when she worked late.
No music playing softly. No half-finished project on the counter. No Maya wandering into the room in one of his sweatshirts.
He had wanted her so badly, sometimes, it made him stupid. Her mouth. Her hands. The soft, distracted sounds she made when she was concentrating.
He had taken all of that and crushed it beneath his own insecurities.
His gaze shifted to another open book. It felt like being skinned alive.
He thought about Maya smiling at him across crowded rooms. Maya reaching for him in her sleep. Maya standing on their porch after jail still believing he might help her.
He looked down at the stack of books again.
Reid let out a rough breath and rubbed at his eyes. He needed to do something. Anything.
Their shared calendar was still synced.
Maya’s plans were set out in color-coded blocks and reminder notifications.
Reid stood up, grabbed his keys from the counter, and headed for the door.
Reid stared at the broken path.
The concrete had been delivered, the site set up for the concrete to be poured, but the job seemed abandoned.
Reid stood there for a long moment, staring at it.
His throat worked. Then he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
This would not undo anything. This would not make her forgive him. She might never even know.
Reid picked up the first bag of concrete mix.
It was dense and awkward in his arms. By the time he carried it to the path, his palms were already sore.
He went back for another.
A good man would have done it for the community.
For the blind woman who might walk this path tomorrow, for the old man with low vision who came here every morning, for every person Maya had been thinking of when she arranged the delivery and wrote out the instructions and made the calls.
Reid knew that. He knew what the noble motivation would have been.
But he was not doing it for them.
He was doing it because Maya had wanted it done.
Because this was one small, physical thing standing unfinished in the middle of the wreckage he had helped make of her life.
Because his wife had needed help, and no one had come.
So he would do it for her.
Bag by bag, Reid worked. Dust stuck to the sweat on his forearms. His shirt clung to his back. Reid crouched in the dirt and followed her instructions.
He worked until his arms burned and his back ached.
He thought of Maya’s bare ring finger. He thought of her signing Lawson without wearing the ring.
He thought of her hand in his, the night they married, warm and certain and impossibly trusting.
She had chosen him.
She had stood in front of him and promised herself to him, and he had spent their marriage waiting for the trick. The catch. The proof that the universe had made a clerical error.
And when he hadn’t found one, he had made one.
Reid hefted another bag.
By the time the final section was finished, the light had gone soft and gold around the trees. He stood back, breathing hard, and looked at the path.
It was not perfect.
Maya would have done it better.
But it was level.
He stood there, his hands braced on his hips.
Maybe Maya would never know. Maybe tomorrow someone would walk this path safely and think only that the council had finally gotten around to fixing it.
That was fine.
Reid did not need credit. He did not need to be seen being good.
He was not good enough for her. No one was.
But Maya had not chosen him.
And if there was one thing he could still do, one thing left to him after every unforgivable mistake, it was this.
He could choose her back.
In every way, with every breath. Whether she saw it or not.
Reid picked up his jacket, shook dirt from the sleeve, and looked once more at the finished path. It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.
The sports center rose into view in front of him. Owen’s car was in the lot. Reid didn’t know if he was looking for reassurance, or for punishment, but he parked anyway.
Maya had touched this place. She’d reworked concrete and steel and made the space work for the people who needed it. Quiet rooms, seating options.
The air inside carried the familiar smell of polished floors and rubber. A basketball thudded rhythmically against the court, punctuated by voices and the squeal of rubber.
Kids moved across the court, hands passing the ball in a pattern, their footwork improving on each pass.
Owen was near the far side of the court, a whistle hanging around his neck. He followed the action, his chair moving in quick, efficient turns along the sideline, keeping pace with the play as he called out instructions.
Then he saw Reid. He said something to one of the older teens at the edge of the court before turning and wheeling across to Reid.
He stopped a few feet from him, his expression hard. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here.”
Reid wanted to know how Maya was. He wanted someone to tell him she was eating, that she was sleeping. He wanted one small piece of her, anything Owen might be able to share with him.
“Have you seen her?”
“She’s not good,” Owen said.
Reid felt something twist in him.
“She needed you.” Owen was angry at him. “She needed her husband to say, ‘I believe you,’ and instead she got—” He gestured sharply at Reid.
Reid didn’t look away.
“I know,” he said.
Owen leaned forward slightly, his hands tightening on the wheels.
“She’s sad,” he said. “She’s not just upset or stressed. She’s—” He broke off, searching for the word. “She’s hurt. You hurt her.”
Reid swallowed. He didn’t try to defend himself. There wasn’t anything to say that would change what he’d done.
On the court behind them, the game resumed its rhythm, the sound of the ball echoing across the space.
It wasn’t just the legal side Reid needed to fix. How did he undo the damage he’d done?
Understanding that he fucked up wasn’t good enough. He needed to make sure he never did it again.
He knew how to fix systems. He was very good at fixing systems.
He was not a system.
Reid looked at his wedding ring.
He needed more than just the books. He needed therapy.