Page 22 of Reeves

The garden hose is still coiled against the side of the garage where it’s always been. I pull it free and twist the spigot open until the line jumps to life in my hand. The first blast of water hits the frame of Rhodes's bike with a sharp hiss, knocking loose a ribbon of dirt that slides toward the concrete.

This part makes sense in a way most things don’t lately.

There’s a rhythm to it. A clear order. I move along both bikes, rinsing the tires, the chains, the engine casings, watching the mud dissolve and run across the floor toward the drain. The repetition and work are satisfying after the unexpected walk down memory lane.

One section at a time. No second-guessing.

By the time I finish, the sun has dipped low enough that the light stretches long across the driveway. I shut off the hose, coil it back against the wall, and roll the bikes into the garage.

Rhodes will probably undo half of this next weekend.

I leave my jacket draped over the workbench and head into the house, still carrying the faint smell of gasoline and damp dirt with me.

The place is quiet when I step inside. It appears everyone is gone because my steps echo and no one greets me when I walk in. I prefer it this way.

The system adjusts the temperature before I make it halfway across the room.

Upstairs, I head straight for the shower.

Hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away the sweat and dust from the ride. I let it run for a few minutes, then shut it off. The bathroom falls quiet except for the drip of the faucet and the low hum of the air conditioner.

I wrap a towel around my waist and walk back into the bedroom, running another one through my hair.

My duffel bag sits open on the floor where I dropped it when I arrived in New Orleans. I’ve been living out of that instead of digging through whatever’s left in the dresser, but tonight I pull one open.

There’s a closet full of clothes I haven’t touched. The second drawer sticks slightly.

Inside is a stack of worn T-shirts from college. I push through them, looking for nothing in particular.

That’s when I see the envelope at the back.

For a second, I don’t register it. Then my hand moves before I think better of it and lifts it from the wood.

The handwriting stops me cold. Charli’s unmistakable bubble letters.

The memory hits fast. Six years collapses in on itself.

I’m back in the parking lot outside the gym, the envelope tucked under my windshield wiper. Two weeks after our last fight. The last time I saw her.

By then, the paperwork was signed. I was leaving for basic the next morning.

I remember standing there with it in my hand, knowing exactly who it was from—and what opening it would do.

Charli and I always fell into the same pattern. Fight. Pull apart. Find our way back.

It never changed.

I turned the envelope over, already knowing reading it would drag me straight back into that cycle. I’d made my decision about the life I was going to live, and I knew how easily she could make me question it.

So I didn’t open it.

I shoved it into a drawer when I got home and told myself I’d deal with it later.

I never did.

Now the envelope rests in my hand, waiting here the entire time. I flip it over and tear the flap open.

The pale pink paper inside unfolds easily, the creases still sharp despite the years. Charli’s handwriting runs across the page in neat, controlled lines that sound so much like her voice I can almost hear the way she would have said the words.