Page 169 of Reeves

"So you want to be part of it?"

"Yeah. I do." He looks directly at me. "I want in. I just… don’t know what that looks like yet."

"Then we need to figure it out. We can't keep going like this."

He takes another sip, and his throat works as he swallows. When he sets the glass down, he leans back against the cushions.

"I'm based in Virginia Beach when I'm stateside. I'd have to see if I could move back here."

"If you can't? Does that mean you have to live in Virginia?"

I never even asked him where he lived when he's not in the Middle East. My mind quickly goes through what that means. If we do this, do I uproot Benjy and move halfway across the country? Would I pick up my practice, or sell it to MedSouth and start again?

And do I leave my aging parents?

I swallow, but it doesn’t go down easily.

"My current tour runs through August, maybe early September." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "My work is unpredictable. I could be gone for weeks or months at a time."

I nod, processing. "And when you're not deployed?"

"I get leave. Time between assignments.” His fingers drum against the leather. “I could spend it here when I’m in between missions."

The hesitation in his voice catches my attention. "Could?"

He looks away, focusing on something past my shoulder. "I'd want to. It's just complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"My whole life is built around leaving. You know I've never been good about staying in one place." He meets my eyes again. "But I want to try."

I take a long sip of my drink, tasting the sharp lime while I think. "Wanting to try isn't enough, Reeves. Not with Benjy involved."

He looks away, and I watch his chest fill with a deep breath.Then he looks back at me, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I know that."

"Do you? Because he's five years old. If you're going to be his father, you can't disappear when it gets hard or when you feel restless."

He turns the glass slightly against the table, not looking at me for a second.

"I'm scared, Reeves. I never imagined we'd be back here having this conversation. When I saw you on Thursday, I just never?—"

He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is lower. "I've always been scared."

"Of what?"

"Of failing you. Of not being what you needed." He lifts the glass, doesn’t drink, sets it back down. “I told myself that.”

I watch him carefully, trying to read him as much as hear what he's saying to me. “How are things different now?”

His jaw shifts. He looks at the floor, then back to me. “Now I don’t get to make that call anymore.”

I keep my voice quiet, my fingers tightening around the glass. I've watched him leave more times than I care to admit.

“I still don’t think we should tell him anything.”

This is how it always starts with him. Quiet and easy, like nothing will go wrong.