Page 42 of Reeves

The irony isn't lost on me. My own system is anything but grounded right now.

I write down another note. My handwriting looks too precise. Too controlled.

My phone vibrates against the table. I turn it over fast enough to jostle my waterbottle.

Still good for 5:30?

My stomach drops.

I type back.

Yes. See you then.

When Dr. Baxter finally concludes her presentation, I'm the first person standing. I gather my things with practiced efficiency, nodding polite goodbyes to the other therapists.

Outside, the New Orleans humidity washes over me immediately. The city hums with the usual late-afternoon energy, but today it only sharpens the tension I’ve been carrying since I first saw him on the street.

The Columns Hotel stands a block away, its white columns glowing in the slanted evening light. I smooth my blazer, adjust the strap of my messenger bag, and walk toward it with steps that feel both too fast and too slow.

At the entrance to the bar, I pause.

Through the glass, I can see the room is half full with the early evening crowd, but I don’t spot Reeves.

I remind myself to take the same approach I use with patients. I have to be clear, direct, and leave no room for misunderstanding.

I push through the door.

The cold air hits me at the door along with the low murmur of other people's conversations, the clink of glass, the kind of ambient noise that makes you feel anonymous. I could use anonymous right now.

Reeves sits at a small table in the back corner, his back to the wall, his face toward the door.

I don't get a second to take in the room or settle into this on my terms. He is already watching me.

Six years, and one look still has me in knots before I canstop it.

Those green eyes lock onto mine across the room, and my body does something completely independent of my better judgment. Heat moves up the back of my neck, low in my stomach, somewhere I don't have permission to feel anything right now.

I keep walking because stopping would be worse than the alternative.

He was handsome at twenty-two in that careless way young men don't appreciate. He is something else entirely now. The years have settled into him, filling out his shoulders, sharpening the line of his jaw.

The ink I glimpsed last night through his truck window is even more striking in this setting. Both arms covered, dark against the white of his button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The tattoos don't hide the veins running the length of his forearms, and I have no business noticing that either.

I notice his forearms.

Stop it.

He rises when I reach the table, his movements fluid and controlled. My eyes snag on his belt buckle when he stands. Sterling silver, alligator strap, his initials in block script. I'd know it anywhere.

He always wore that belt in college. Part wealth, part rebellion. Like he couldn't decide which one to be.

He's still wearing it.

I drag my eyes back to his face and remind myself why I'm here.

He looks looser than he did last night in the truck.

"Charli."