Page 90 of Reeves

Benjy grins. “I know, Silly Goose!”

While they’re still working, I slip back toward the house. The washer finished while Reeves was at the hardware store, so I tossed the clothes into the dryer before he came back outside. They should be close to done now.

Inside, the smell of fresh clothes drying fills the house. The dryer hums softly in the laundry room.

I pull the door open and reach in. The shirt and shorts are warm but dry enough to wear. I shake them out, fold them over the towel, and head back outside.

By the time I return to the yard, Reeves is climbing down from the ladder while Benjy narrates the structural improvements at top volume.

"They're done," I say, holding the clothes out. "I'm honestly impressed with how well they turned out."

Reeves glances down at them, surprised. "You got the paint out?"

"Mostly. There are some spots, but overall, they came pretty clean."

He reaches for the shirt, and our fingers brush as he takes it from me. The contact lasts only a second, but a small warmth spreads up my wrist and lands with a thud between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together to stop it or to hold onto it. I'm not sure which one.

I make myself look at him instead of away, which is a mistake. My father's shirt is approximately two sizes too small on him, pulling tight across his broad shoulders in a way it never once did on my dad.

He has absolutely no idea what he's doing to me.

Reeves looks down at the clothes, running his thumb over the fabric. “You’re good.”

"Mom skills come in handy."

The wordmomcatches in my head.

Reeves’s mother died when he was twelve. It was always a tender subject for him. He never let anyone else see it, ever the stoic. But sometimes he would tell me stories about her.

My eyes drift to Benjy.

He’s still at that age where the world feels safe because his mother is standing nearby. The thought of that safety disappearing makes me panicky.

Reeves had to learn how to live with that kind of loss before he was even grown.

And for reasons I never fully understood, he trusted me enough to let me see it.

"Can we go back to check our traps, Mommy? Reeves and I have been talking about it. Pretty please?"

"I think we are beached out, bud. Plus, I know Reeves said he has to get back to New Orleans."

“Actually, my truck’s still down by the beach access. I need to walk back there anyway. We can check the traps before I head out.”

Benjy jumps up and down.

"Can we walk? Please?"

"Sure. Let's walk."

Benjy takes off toward the gate before I finish the sentence, already wearing his trap-builder hat. I don't bother locking the front door because we never do.

The afternoon air smells of salt and warm sand. Gulls call somewhere overhead, and the sound of waves reaches us even from this distance. It's the kind of perfect coastal day that makes tourists pay ridiculous amounts for vacation rentals.

"Thanks for taking care of those repairs on his treehouse. I really appreciate it," I say to Reeves as we turn onto the street that leads toward the beach access.

Reeves glances ahead at Benjy, who has stopped to examine a large rock in the grass beside the road.

"I'm glad I'm able to help. I'm sorry I haven't been there for you two for all these years."