Page 96 of Reeves

Vince is free. He can head your way in ten.

TWENTY-TWO

Charli

The Held Breath:Just before the cut, a strange quiet settles inside the noise — the whole procession pausing inside itself before everything changes.

Benjy comes running backfrom the water's edge, sand stuck to his wet calves and his cheeks flushed from the sun. He's breathless from chasing birds along the shoreline.

"Mom, I'm hungry."

He plops down beside me on the sand, clapping the sand off his palms.

"Can we have hamburgers and French fries for dinner?"

For a second, I’m not sitting on this beach anymore. I’m twenty-three again, stretched out on a blanket in the backyard of Reeves’s house while he stands over the grill with a beer in his hand, arguing with me about the “correct” way to build a burger.

Charcoal and lighter fluid fill the air. Music drifts out of the kitchen. His voice carries over it.

Those nights felt endless. Like we had time to figure everything out. Like the future was ours to shape instead of something that would break us.

I look at him now, a few feet away, the same broad shoulders, the same way his hand curls around the back of his neck when he’s thinking.

Before I understood that Reeves Stone would never be able to give me forever.

"We'll see what we have at home," I tell Benjy, pushing the memory away. "Maybe it's time to head back. Does that work, Reeves? You can come hang out until your ride gets here."

Benjy nods and turns to Reeves, who's been quiet since he put his phone away.

"Are you going to eat dinner with us?"

The question hangs in the air. Reeves looks at me, and I watch his expression shift.

"I'm not sure if I'll have time."

Benjy's face falls just slightly. Not a dramatic disappointment, but the kind of quiet letdown that kids get when things they were looking forward to don't work out.

"Oh. Okay."

He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers, already moving on the way five-year-olds do. But I caught the moment of disappointment, and I know Reeves did, too.

The silence stretches between us. Reeves is looking out at the water, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else entirely.

This is good, I tell myself. He should leave. We need to get back to normal.

Except normal doesn’t look like this.

It doesn’t include the way Benjy lit up when Reeves fixed his treehouse ladder, or how easily they worked together on the pirate trap. It doesn’t include the way I keep catching myself watching him. The tilt of his head when he’s thinking. The way he positions himself without realizing it, a quiet line between us and everything behind us.

Or the way he looks at Benjy, like he’s trying to hold on to him against his own nature.

Benjy stands and brushes the sand off his shorts. “Ok, Mommy. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“Go grab your bucket and shovel,” I tell him, pointing toward the edge of the water. He takes off, and suddenly it’s just the two of us again, sitting in the sand with the last of the heat still clinging to the air.

Reeves watches him go. Then he exhales and looks over at me.

“You know,” he says, his voice casual in a way that feels almost deliberate, “I make a pretty good burger.”