Page 14 of Reeves

“Yes, ma’am. I'll be gone for a while.”

The five-bay garage sits detached from the house, climate-controlled like everything else. My Hummer is parked along the far wall, detailed and maintained despite the fact that I left it here three years ago. That’s how this house works. Nothing is allowed to sit untended.

The keys are in the lockbox beside the interior door.

The engine turns over on the first try. The sound alone calms me.

I back down the drive and don’t look at the house in the rearview mirror.

I take I-10 east because it’s open and because I don’t want to circle back into the city. The lanes stretch out ahead, the traffic thinning as the skyline fades behind me.

I keep my speed steady, hands loose on the wheel. I’ve always loved the hum of this engine.

The state line passes overhead before I register the sign. Mississippi. I’ve already crossed it by the time I realize what I’m doing.

Bay St. Louis isn’t far from New Orleans. Close enough to pass as aimless without admitting I’m headed anywhere specific.

I roll the window down, and the air changes as the road angles south. The smell shifts from river and asphalt to salt and open water. The sky is dimming now, the last light flattening against the horizon.

I check the fuel gauge and calculate the distance. I note theexits behind me. My brain does it automatically, even when there’s no threat to assess.

The sign appears a few miles later.

Bay St. Louis.

My grip on the wheel tightens, just slightly.

I could keep driving. Cross the coast and head east until the tank runs low. That would turn this into a pointless loop.

Instead, I ease into the exit lane to Bay St. Louis, the small coastal town where Charli grew up. I'm guessing her parents still live in the same house.

The town hasn’t changed much. Raised cottages line the streets, with warmly lit porches as the evening closes in. The pace here has always been slower, more deliberate.

I know these streets without needing directions.

I pass Magnolia Street and recognize it immediately. The same blue shutters with white trim. My pulse shifts before I consciously acknowledge why.

I slow as I reach the corner and stop at the stop sign.

And then I seeher.

Charli stands in the middle of the street wearing worn jeans and a loose white T-shirt, her hair pulled back the same careless way she used to when she studied late into the night. She jogs beside a small boy wobbling forward on a bike with training wheels.

Her back is to me. My heart drops to my stomach.

“You’ve got it,” she calls, her hand hovering near the seat without touching.

The kid’s face tightens in concentration, his chin set with stubborn determination.

The sight sits somewhere deep in my core and holds there.

He pedals toward a seafoam cottage three doors down from her parents’ house. Charli claps when he makes it to the driveway,and runs toward him. She kneels to adjust the strap beneath his helmet, her fingers gentle under his chin.

For a moment I sit there with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel, watching a life unfold that has nothing to do with me.

Of course she built it. Charli always knew what she wanted: a family, a house in a small town and a quiet street where neighbors know each other.

She always wanted a family that stays.