Page 10 of Reeves

He was always better at carrying weight than admitting it.

I swallow past the lump rising. He isn’t my concern anymore. He made that clear. Still, I can’t help hoping he’s okay.

I straighten and reach for the light switch.

Whatever happens in New Orleans this weekend doesn’t have anything to do with us.

THREE

Reeves

The Dirge:The first music played in a jazz funeral — not meant to comfort, but to carry the weight of what cannot yet be said.

I waketo sunlight cutting through a narrow gap in the curtains and the low hum of voices drifting up from below. I remember staring at the ceiling at four this morning, wide awake and restless. At some point, I must have drifted off again.

Today is the memorial.

The thought materializes before I fully sit up. I roll my shoulders and shift my neck, working out the stiffness from a night that never felt like real sleep.

The house sounds different. Doors open and close with purpose. Footsteps move steadily along the hallway. Conversations stay low, professional, and contained.

I stand under the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against the back of my neck. The heat loosens my muscles, but not the pressure sitting beneath them.

After toweling off, I pull on fresh boxer briefs and pause atthe suit hanging on the closet door. Black. Clean lines. Already pressed.

I shrug into the starched shirt and smooth it down over my shoulders. The fabric is lighter than the fatigues I wear in the desert, lighter than the rucksack I carry on deployment. But when I catch my reflection in the mirror, the image adds weight all its own.

I button the shirt with steady hands. The tie takes no thought. I’ve tied enough of them at fundraisers and Krewe balls to do it without looking.

I slide my arms into the jacket, the material straining slightly across my back. The suit was tailored three years ago when I went to a gala with Ridge, before my last deployment added another ten pounds of muscle. Black tie, three hundred people, most of them watching him.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

"Mr. Stone? The first cars are arriving at the gate." Ms. Landry's voice is muffled through the wood.

"I'll be down in a minute." My voice is flat even to my own ears.

I turn to the mirror. The man staring back looks exactly like what everyone expects. Dark suit, crisp collar, clean-shaven. I got a regulation-short haircut in the barracks the night before I left.

I realize I'm standing at parade rest without even thinking about it.

My father would approve of the presentation.

I adjust my sleeves under my jacket. The cufflinks are cold between my fingers. They're sterling silver with R.S. engraved in block script. His. Mine now, I suppose.

My neck tightens as I slip them through the buttonholes. The pressure that transfers from my neck to my shoulders isn't grief exactly. It's heavier. It tastes like duty and looks like performance.

I check my watch.

The staircase creaks under my weight as I descend. Below, the foyer buzzes with controlled activity. Staff adjust lilies in crystal vases as caterers align silver trays. No one asks what needs to be done. They already know.

Someone opens the French doors to let morning air circulate through the rooms.

Cain appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed identically except for the green tie. He's always got to do some flair to take attention away from his bald head.

"Ready?" he asks, knowing the answer doesn't matter.

I nod once and follow him toward the doors where guests will enter. My father's world is coming to pay respects.