Page 49 of The Silence Between

What struck me most painfully was recognizing the teaching approach she described—the passion for literature we'd once shared, the belief that connecting to books mattered more than academic analysis, the genuine rather than performative engagement with ideas. This was the Ethan I had known, the essence unchanged despite whatever success had followed him after Riverton.

“Oh, and Diego has news too,” Sophie added, apparently satisfied with her own update. “Tell them about yesterday, D.”

Diego, who had been quietly focused on his food, shot Sophie a betrayed look. “It wasn't a big deal.”

“What happened yesterday?” I asked, tension coiling tighter in my chest.

Diego shrugged, pushing pasta around his plate. “Some jerks from school were messing with me at the basketball courts. Took my calculator.”

“What?” My protective instinct flared immediately. “Who?”

“Doesn't matter. A teacher stopped them.” Diego's studied casualness couldn't quite mask his discomfort. “Made them give it back.”

“A teacher? On a Saturday?”

“Yeah. Mr. Webb.” Diego looked up. “You know him?”

I took a deep breath, aware of all three siblings watching me now with varying degrees of curiosity. “Yes, I know him. We went to high school together.” I paused, then added, “You two probably don't remember him, but he used to come over sometimes. You two were very young.”

“Wait,” Mari interjected, recognition dawning in her eyes. “Tall guy? Glasses sometimes? Used to bring those chocolate cookies from that bakery on Main?”

I nodded, surprised by her memory. “That's him.”

“I remember him,” Mari said, her gaze sharpening. “He helped me with homework a few times.”

Diego frowned, clearly trying and failing to access any memory. “I don't remember him.”

“You wouldn't,” I said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why haven't you mentioned him before?” Sophie asked,

“It never came up,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by miles. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

Mari's eyes hadn't left my face, her expression suggesting she was piecing together far more than I wanted to share over spaghetti. “Small town,” she said, echoing my earlier thought. “People always circle back.”

I nodded and deliberately changed the subject to safer territory. But my mind remained fixed on the unavoidable fact: Ethan Webb had returned to Riverton.

Inevitably, we would meet. The only questions were when, where, and whether I could maintain the protective walls I'd built when that moment came.

* * *

The high schoolcorridors echoed with that particular emptiness that belongs to buildings designed for crowds but temporarily abandoned. My janitorial cart squeaked slightly as I pushed it through the math wing, the sound amplified in the late-night silence. 11:45 PM, and every shadow, every distant sound, carried the possibility of an encounter I wasn't prepared to face.

I'd already cleaned the science labs and gymnasium, saving the English department for last—or possibly skipping it entirely if my other tasks ran long. Strategic avoidance, a holding pattern while I figured out how to navigate this new reality where my workplace had transformed from reliable income into potential emotional minefield.

Passing the library, I noticed light spilling from beneath the door which was unusual for this hour unless a teacher was working late. I could pretend I hadn't seen it, continue to the next section, avoid potential confrontation.

But habit and responsibility won out. I knocked perfunctorily on the door before pushing it open, immediately recognizing my mistake.

Ethan sat alone at a table surrounded by books and papers, grading assignments with such absorption he hadn't registered my interruption. For one suspended moment, I observed unnoticed—cataloging a decade's changes in features both familiar and transformed.

His hair was shorter now, styled rather than the perpetually disheveled look from high school. Wire-rimmed glasses I didn't remember perched on his nose. Professional attire—button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to elbows, tie loosened after a long day—replaced the hoodies and jeans of our youth. Lines at the corners of his eyes suggested laugh lines or worry lines or both. But beneath these alterations, the fundamental essence remained recognizable—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way he absently pushed hair back from his forehead, the total focus he gave to whatever captured his attention.

The frozen tableau shattered when he glanced up, recognition immediate and absolute.

Our eyes met across the room. Neither of us spoke initially, shock rendering language inadequate. When Ethan finally broke the silence, it was with a single word that carried a decade of unresolved emotion.

“Leo.”

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