Page 15 of The Silence Between

It wasn't the complete story—I could sense the careful editing—but it was more than he'd shared with anyone at school. The trust in that partial truth felt significant.

“I'm sorry,” I said, meaning it.

He nodded, accepting the simple expression of sympathy without comment.

As closing time approached, we lingered outside the bookstore, the autumn evening wrapping around us like a shared secret. I found myself unwilling to say goodbye, to return to my carefully structured life and the SAT prep waiting on my desk.

“Have you ever been to the old railroad bridge?” I asked impulsively.

Leo raised an eyebrow. “Of course I have.”

“Want to go now? The view at sunset is incredible.”

He checked his phone, then nodded. “For a little while.”

We walked in comfortable silence, past the neat storefronts of downtown toward the abandoned railroad bridge that spanned the River Slate. Once the lifeblood of Riverton's commerce, the tracks had been unused for decades, the bridge now a favorite spot for teenagers seeking privacy.

We sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the river flowing dark and constant beneath us. From this vantage point, the town's divide was painfully clear. West Riverton's well-lit streets and manicured parks contrasting sharply with the dimmer glow of East Riverton and the shadows of The Hollows beyond.

“Do you ever want to leave?” I asked, watching the sunset paint the water in shades of gold and crimson.

Leo was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. “Every day,” he finally said, his voice low. “But not without my siblings.”

The simplicity of his answer contained multitudes—dreams constrained by love, ambition tempered by responsibility. I thought about my own carefully mapped escape route: college applications, scholarships based on debate performance, the promise of cities far from Riverton's expectations. I'd never considered having to stay for someone else.

“What about you?” Leo asked. “Princeton legacy, right? Following in daddy's footsteps?”

The question should have sounded mocking, but instead held genuine curiosity.

“That's the plan,” I said. “Princeton undergrad, Yale Law, then politics or corporate law, depending on which will make my father prouder.”

“And what do you want?”

No one had ever asked me that directly. Not my parents, not my guidance counselor, not even my friends. What did I want?

“I don't know,” I admitted. “Something that feels real. Writing, maybe. Or teaching.” I laughed without humor. “Pretty much anything that would disappoint my family.”

Leo didn't offer empty reassurances or dismissive platitudes. He just nodded, understanding the weight of expectations in a way my West Riverton friends never could.

We sat there until stars appeared, neither speaking but somehow communicating more than we had all day.

* * *

The regional debatetournament was held in the grand ballroom of a downtown hotel that had seen better days. Ornate chandeliers hung above threadbare carpet, gilt mirrors reflected nervous teenagers in formal attire, and the air carried the competing scents of floor polish and anxiety.

Leo and I had prepared extensively, meeting whenever his complicated schedule allowed. Our topic—educational inequality in public schools—had personal significance for both of us, though from vastly different perspectives.

As we reviewed our notes one last time before our round, I noticed Leo checking his phone repeatedly, his forehead creased with worry.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He looked up, conflict evident in his expression. “Mari called. Mom had another episode. Dad's not around. She says she's handling it, but...” He trailed off, clearly torn between his commitment to the tournament and concern for his family.

“We could forfeit,” I suggested. “Family comes first.”

He shook his head firmly. “Mari insisted I stay. And we've worked too hard.” His phone buzzed again, and he checked it quickly. “She says they're fine for now. Let's just focus on the debate.”

But the weight of his divided attention was palpable, the impossible choices he navigated daily suddenly visible in a way they hadn't been before. I wanted to say something meaningful, something that acknowledged the unfairness of it all, but before I could find the words, the tournament director announced that we were up next.

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