Page 34 of Reeves

“Right.” I tuck my hands into my back pockets and draw a slow breath.

Neither of us moves. The streetlights flicker on along Magnolia Lane, casting long shadows across the pavement.

“I should get these groceries inside before everything melts.”

He nods, relief crossing his features. “I’m sorry for startling you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

His words land like a stone in still water. They are too small for what lies between us and too heavy for a moment like this.

“No apology necessary. It’s nice to see you. Drive safe, Reeves.” I shrug lightly.

Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk back up the driveway. I gather the grocery bags from the backseat and close the door with my hip.

The truck pulls away behind me, the low rumble fading as he turns down the street. When I glance back, the red taillights disappear around the corner.

The scent of exhaust lingers in the cooling night air.

I stand motionless on the porch, grocery bags growing heavier in my hands, wondering how we managed to have an entire conversation without saying anything that mattered.

I push the front door closed with my foot and stand in the entry hall while the refrigerator hums in the kitchen.

Otherwise, the house is silent.

And I have never been more aware of how alone I am.

My hands start to tremble.

The grocery bags slip in my grip as I carry them to the kitchen counter. Milk. Ice cream. Apples. I move items from the bag to the refrigerator on autopilot, but my brain won’t cooperate.

I put the cereal box in the freezer, catch myself, then stand there holding it.

Six years and two minutes of conversation through an open truck window, and my hands are shaking, and I can’t think straight.

This reaction isn’t from nerves. From the specific, inconvenient memory of what those hands on that steering wheel used to feel like on my skin.

Get it together.

I set the box down and grip the edge of the counter, drawing in a slow breath.

He didn’t mention the letter.

He didn’t ask about Benjy.

For six years, Reeves existed only in memory and in the green eyes of our son. Not flesh and blood on my street, studying my house.

Why now? What does he want?

I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. The liquid sloshes over the rim as my hand shakes.

With Benjy at my parents’ house for the night, I welcome the silence.

I carry the glass onto the back porch and sink into the wicker chair, holding it against my breast while the night air moves through the live oaks.

Nothing has changed, I tell myself.

Reeves made his choice years ago.

He’ll be gone in a week.