Page 193 of Reeves

I runmy finger around the rim of the empty coffee mug, the quiet settling into the space where noise usually lives. There are no cartoons, no trucks crashing into baseboards, or a small voice asking for more cereal.

I’m getting used to our new normal.

I pour coffee into a mug and leave it on the counter while I wipe down the surface, moving in slow circles, taking my time in a way I never do during the week. There’s no rush this morning.

A small pile of Benjy’s T-shirts sits on the ottoman, warm from the dryer. I fold them one by one, smoothing out the wrinkles before stacking them neatly.

Reeves’s house isn’t what I expected he would buy.

Not oversized or polished. It doesn’t appear to be chosen to impress anyone. Only to serve a purpose, which is to be close to his son.

It’s close. Close to the school. Close to here. Close enoughthat Benjy can move between the two without it feeling like a disruption.

I carry my coffee out onto the deck. The morning sun filters through the trees, warming the wood beneath my feet. The house still smells faintly like yesterday, the sugar and sweat and the plastic scent of the jump castle still clinging to everything.

His sixth birthday party went off without a hitch, but not without negotiation.

A week before, Reeves texted me a link to a custom-built playset the size of a small house. It was made out of hand-carved cedar, had a climbing wall, zip line, and two slides. The kind of thing you'd find in a magazine spread about someone's Hamptons estate.

He'd love it, Reeves insisted. I have a team lined up to install it in your yard and ready to go for the party if you’re okay with it.

He would, I’d said. He also loves Legos, his friends, and cake with blue frosting. Get him the Lego set he's been asking about since August. Save the cedar mansion for when he's old enough to appreciate it.

He didn't respond right away. But he didn't push.

I sent him the link to the Lego set. Forty-two dollars on Amazon. That’s what he gave him for his birthday, instead.

That was the moment I understood something had actually shifted in him.

The party itself went exactly as it should have. Reeves moved through it like he'd been there the whole time. Carrying pizzas in when I pointed. Wiping down tables before I asked. Standing next to me when everyone sang, his hand resting lightly on Benjy's shoulder like it belonged there.

Not once did he try to take over, nor did he hesitate when I gave him a chore.

Thanksgiving is a week and a half away. I haven’t decidedwhat that looks like yet. Mom thinks I should invite him. I haven’t said yes.

I haven’t said no either.

The doorbell rings, pulling me from my thoughts. Mom stands on the porch with a container of food that smells like cinnamon.

"I had extra muffins." She walks past me into the kitchen. "Where's my grandson hiding?"

"He's with Reeves today. They're working on the fort this weekend."

She sets the container on the counter. "That's right. I need to drive by there. Where is it, again?"

I nod, reaching for plates. "The amazing little craftsman on Iris Lane. Right on the marsh."

"And you said he'll be commuting into the city from here?" Her eyebrow lifts slightly as she takes the mug of coffee I offer.

"He says so."

Mom studies me over her coffee. "This doesn't sound like the man you described all those years ago."

“It’s not.” I lean back against the counter. “That version of him didn’t stay anywhere long enough to buy furniture, let alone a house in Bay St. Louis.”

She breaks a muffin in half. “Seems like he figured out what matters.”

I don’t answer that.