Page 53 of The Silence Between

“I'll see you around, Leo,” he said, the simple phrase carrying layers of meaning neither of us was ready to unpack.

“See you around,” I echoed, stepping into the fading afternoon light with the strange sensation of having crossed some invisible threshold.

That evening, I sat at our living room helping Sophie with her English homework, her enthusiasm for the assignment complicated by my new awareness of her teacher's identity.

“Mr. Webb says we need to identify the narrative perspective and explain how it affects our understanding of the character,” she read from her assignment sheet, brow furrowed in concentration.

“First-person narration means we only know what the narrator knows,” I explained, keeping my voice casual despite the storm of emotions Ethan's name still triggered. “It limits our perspective but creates intimacy with that character.”

“That's what Mr. Webb said!” Sophie looked impressed with my literary knowledge. “He also said unreliable narrators are the most interesting because they force us to question everything. He's really good at explaining stuff. Not boring like most teachers. He treats us like we're smart enough to understand complicated ideas.”

Before I could formulate a response, Mari entered, immediately sensing the tension in my expression. “Hey Soph, can you help Diego with the dishes? I need to talk to Leo about college application stuff.”

Sophie groaned but complied, gathering her homework and heading toward the kitchen. Once she was out of earshot, Mari turned to me with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.

“College application stuff? Really?”

“Thanks for the save,” I admitted.

“So what's going on?” Mari asked. “You've been weird since dinner Sunday, and just now you looked like someone walked over your grave when Sophie mentioned her teacher.”

“It's about Ethan,” I said finally. “I didn't expect him to be back in Riverton, let alone teaching Sophie.”

Mari nodded, unsurprised. “I always wondered what happened between you two. One day he was just gone.”

The question caught me off guard. We didn't discuss my past relationships—hadn't discussed any relationships, really, given how few I'd attempted since becoming her guardian.

“It was impossible timing,” I explained after a moment. “I had just gotten custody of you three. There wasn't room for anything else.”

This condensed explanation captured the decade-old choice without conveying its emotional devastation, protective instinct still shielding family from full understanding of sacrifices made.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Mari asked.

“Briefly. Today, actually.” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “It was... civil. Strange. I don't know what I expected.”

Mari studied me with unusual intensity. “That was then,” she said finally. “We're not the same desperate situation now.”

“It's been ten years,” I countered. “People change. Move on.”

“Some things don't,” she said with quiet confidence. “Not if they mattered enough.”

12

DEFENSIVE MANEUVERS

LEO

My cramped bedroom desk became mission control, with three color-coded calendars and a stack of work schedules spread out like I was planning a bank heist instead of just trying to dodge one guy. The apartment was dead quiet, everyone else still enjoying sleep like normal people while I sat hunched over my master plan: Operation Avoid Ethan Webb At All Costs.

I scribbled English department meetings in red. Mapped out Ethan's probable classroom hours in blue, based on stuff Sophie mentioned and conversations I'd overheard while mopping hallways. Yellow highlighted the danger zones, places where we might accidentally bump into each other: main office, parking lot, that one hallway where everyone ends up between classes.

Then I got down to the real tactical business. Switch janitorial hours to clean the English wing after 1 AM, when even the most dedicated literary types would be home in bed. Move Mrs. Hernandez's never-ending plumbing saga to Tuesdays. Ask Mari to handle Sophie's pickup on days when Ethan taught late. A guy could avoid his past if he planned carefully enough.

My eyes drifted to Thursday on the calendar, circled twice in black. Community college notification day. The envelope sat on my desk, unopened. Fourth try's the charm, right? Or maybe just another disappointment to add to the collection.

My thumb rubbed absently over the semicolon tattoo on my wrist. My personal reminder: story not over yet, even when it feels like it should be.

This wasn't just me being dramatic. It was practical. The family machine was finally running without breaking down every other day.

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