Page 17 of The Silence Between

SENIOR YEAR

September sunlight spilled across the weathered boards of the railroad bridge, warm against my back as I waited. Below, the River Slate cut through Riverton, dividing West from East with glittering indifference. I'd arrived early, as usual, my backpack stuffed with Princeton application materials I pretended were the reason for our meeting. The real reason sat in my pocket: two tickets to a poetry reading at the community college, their edges already soft from how many times I'd taken them out, looked at them, almost thrown them away.

Senior year. Seven months until graduation.

I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my face, trying to calm the nervous flutter in my chest. Leo and I had spent most of the summer together. Study sessions that became conversations that stretched late into the evening, debates that turned into laughter, silences that grew comfortable rather than awkward.

“Planning to jump?” Leo's voice came from behind me, tinged with the dry humor I'd come to recognize as uniquely his.

I turned, opening my eyes to find him standing on the tracks, backpack slung over one shoulder. His summer jobs—landscaping by day, stocking shelves by night—had broadened his shoulders, defined the muscles in his arms. The constant worry about his family had etched new lines beside his eyes, but his smile, rare and genuine, still transformed his face.

“Just enjoying the view,” I said, moving over to make room for him.

He settled beside me, our legs dangling over the edge, close enough that our knees almost touched. “Sorry I'm late. Had to drop Diego off at a friend's birthday party. Kid was so excited he could barely tie his shoes.”

I nodded, trying not to stare at the curve of his jaw, stronger and sharper than it had been junior year. “How's the college essay coming?”

“Finished the draft for UW.” He pulled a folded paper from his backpack. “Want to read it?”

I took the paper, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Such a small contact—meaningless to anyone else, electric to me. The essay was titled “Building Family from Fragments,” a powerful account of raising his siblings while preserving their childhood despite adult realities.

“This is really good, Leo,” I said, meaning it. “They'd be idiots not to accept you.”

He shrugged, but I caught the flicker of pride in his eyes. “UW has decent financial aid. And there's an affordable apartment complex nearby where I could bring the kids.” He glanced at me. “What about you? Princeton application ready?”

“Almost.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, though the thought of Princeton now felt hollow compared to the possibility of staying closer to home. To Leo.

Our knees touched as we sat talking about classes and applications. Neither of us moved away.

“I, uh, wanted to ask you something,” I finally said, heart hammering so loudly I was certain he could hear it. I pulled the tickets from my pocket, slightly crumpled from their time against my thigh. “There's this poetry reading Friday night at the community college. I thought... maybe we could go together?”

Leo's expression shifted—surprise, uncertainty, then something softer, almost pleased—before reality intruded.

“I'd need to find someone to watch the kids,” he said, not an outright refusal.

“It's at seven. Ends by nine.” I was already accommodating his constraints, a dance we'd perfected over months of friendship.

He took the tickets, studying them. “I'll try. Mrs. Hernandez next door might help out.”

Our hands brushed again as the tickets changed hands. This time, neither of us pretended not to notice. Our eyes met and held for a moment too long, acknowledging something neither of us had named.

“I hope you can make it,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.

Leo nodded, tucking the tickets carefully into his wallet. “Me too.”

The air between us vibrated with possibility, with danger, with hope.

* * *

Friday evening arrivedcold and clear, stars appearing one by one in the darkening sky. I waited outside the community college auditorium, checking my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Six fifty-eight. Leo wasn't late, not technically, but anxiety twisted in my stomach anyway.

I'd told my parents I was attending an academic lecture. I'd even dressed with unusual care: new jacket, hair styled differently than my usual haphazard approach. Now, standing alone as other attendees filtered past me into the auditorium, I felt ridiculous and exposed.

Seven-oh-five. Seven-ten.

Doubt crept in. Had something happened with his family? Had he changed his mind? Was I reading too much into everything, turning friendship into something it wasn't?

Seven-fifteen. The auditorium doors would close soon.

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