Page 52 of The Silence Between

“The students seem engaged,” Ethan said breaking the silence, fingers tapping lightly on his mug. “Different from Seattle. More straightforward somehow.”

I nodded, watching steam rise from my cup. “Riverton kids tend to say what they think. Sometimes too directly.”

“I find it refreshing after university seminars where everyone speaks in carefully constructed paragraphs.” His smile appeared genuine but guarded. “Though I'm still adjusting to teaching six periods a day instead of three classes a week.”

“Must be exhausting,” I offered, surprising myself with how easily we fell into the familiar cadence of conversation, despite everything between us.

“It is, but in a good way.” He glanced around the diner.

“How long have you been back?” I asked, stirring sugar into coffee I'd normally drink black.

“Just over two weeks.” He wrapped both hands around his mug as if seeking warmth. “Started teaching immediately. Still staying with Marcus until I find an apartment.”

“Marcus,” I repeated, the name creating another connection point in our complicated web. “He never mentioned you were coming back.”

“I asked him not to,” Ethan admitted. “I wanted... I don't know what I wanted. Time to adjust, I guess. To figure out how to approach...” He gestured vaguely between us.

“And did you? Figure it out?”

“Clearly not,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Though in my defense, I thought I'd have more time before we ran into each other.”

A ghost of familiar humor surfaced between us, momentarily easing the tension. Ethan had always been able to laugh at himself, a quality I'd found endearing in a world where I took everything too seriously.

“Sophie and Diego complicated that plan,” I acknowledged.

“They did. I'm sorry about that. I wasn't trying to insert myself into their lives.”

“I know.” And strangely, I did know. Whatever complicated emotions Ethan's return stirred, I didn't question his intentions. “Diego mentioned you helped him.”

“I happened to be walking by,” he explained. “Couldn't just keep going. He's a remarkable kid. Reminds me of you at that age.”

The conversation shifted into more personal territory as he asked about my siblings. What started as brief updates gradually deepened, my customary guardedness giving way to stories I rarely shared. I found myself describing Mari's late-night study sessions at the kitchen table, her determination to maintain her 4.0 GPA despite working part-time at the local grocery store. I told him about her applications to state universities and the private scholarship interviews she'd aced, how she researched financial aid options.

“She's always been the organized one,” I admitted. “Even when everything was falling apart, Mari would still have her homework done two days early.”

Ethan nodded, his expression softening. “And Diego?”

“Diego's... complicated,” I said finally. “Brilliant with numbers, can solve complex equations in his head, but struggles with reading comprehension. The school wanted to label him as having behavioral issues until we got him properly tested for learning differences.” I found myself explaining the battles with the district, the IEP meetings, the hours spent advocating for appropriate accommodations. “His math teacher thinks he could qualify for advanced placement next year if his supports remain consistent.”

Ethan's attentiveness encouraged further disclosure. I shared stories of Sophie's recent art show at the elementary school, how her watercolors captured emotional landscapes beyond her years. “She processes everything through art,” I explained. “When she's upset or confused, she paints instead of talking. Sometimes I think it's her way of preserving memories of our mother from before—“ I stopped, suddenly aware of how much I was revealing.

But instead of discomfort, I felt Ethan's genuine interest as he asked about Sophie's preferred techniques, her favorite subjects. I described her fascination with color theory, how she'd saved birthday money for professional-grade watercolors rather than toys, the way her art teacher had created a special lunchtime studio session just for her.

“She has our mother's gift,” I said quietly. “Before the drugs. Mom used to illustrate children's books, did freelance work for local publishers. She was incredible.” The past tense hung between us, acknowledging without explanation what had become of that talent.

Ethan listened with genuine interest that gradually evolved into something like admiration. “You did it,” he said simply. “You kept them together, gave them stability.”

The acknowledgment created an unexpected tightness in my throat. “Had to,” I managed. “No other acceptable option.”

“That doesn't make it less remarkable.”

As our coffee grew cold, conversation approached but carefully avoided our most significant territory. Instead, we established tentative parameters for our current interaction.

“I've thought about you often, wondered if—“ Ethan started to say but I interrupted with gentle but firm redirection.

“We were different people then,” I said, the protective instinct that had governed my life for a decade asserting itself. “Better to focus on now.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary without pushing. As we prepared to leave, our goodbye carried the weight of everything discussed and everything deliberately avoided.

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