Page 98 of Reeves

The walk to Mickey’s takes us through the older part of Bay St. Louis, past houses with wide front porches and oak trees that have been here longer than any of us.

Benjy points out everything as we go, the yellow house with the tire swing, the fence where Mrs. Chen grows her tomatoes, the spot where he found a really good stick last month, circling back on details he’s already told me a dozen times but wants Reeves to hear.

Reeves listens to all of it, asking just enough questions to keep him going.

“That’s where my friend Paolo lives. He has a dog named Buster who can catch a Frisbee in his mouth.”

“That’s a good skill for a dog to have.”

“Paolo says he’s part Border Collie, which makes him really smart. Do you know about Border Collies?”

“I do. They’re working dogs. Bred to herd sheep.”

Benjy nods like this confirms an important fact and keeps talking, shifting into another story without missing a beat.

Reeves adjusts his pace to match him, steady and unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be. I catch it without meaning to, the way his attention stays locked on Benjy, the way he doesn’t rush him or talk over him.

It would be easy to miss, if I didn’t know him.

Or if I hadn’t spent years memorizing the way he gives his attention when it matters.

Mickey's Market sits on the corner of Harbor Road, exactly the way it has for the past twenty years. The parking lot is mostlyempty except for a few pickup trucks and Mrs. Rodriguez's ancient Honda.

“I’ll grab a cart,” Reeves says as we approach the entrance.

“I can get it.”

“I’ve got it, Charli.”

He pulls a cart free and hands it to me, his fingers brushing mine for a second before he lets go. The gesture is easy, automatic. Familiar in a way I don’t have time to think about.

Benjy is already racing toward the doors, rattling off a list of things he wants before we even step inside.

“Let’s focus on burger stuff first,” I say, steering the cart toward the meat section. “We have to carry all of this home.”

The store is cool and quiet, the kind of end-of-day lull where every sound carries. Benjy drifts straight to the freezer case, pressing his hands against the glass.

“Mom, look. They have rocket pops.”

“After dinner, maybe.”

Reeves steps in beside me at the meat counter, close enough that I’m aware of him without looking. He studies the packages for a second, then lifts one.

“Eighty-twenty?”

“That works.”

He drops it into the cart, and when he shifts, his arm brushes mine again, light but deliberate enough that I notice.

I keep my hands on the handle and keep moving.

We move through the store together, quiet and efficient, like we’ve done this before.

We haven’t.

That’s what catches me off guard. Not the groceries or the conversation, but how easily we fall into step. The way he reaches for things without asking. The way I don’t question it.

“Benjy, stay where I can see you,” I call when he drifts toward the snack aisle.