Page 55 of The Silence Between

Of course. Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

He looked up when the door opened, relief washing over his face when he saw my toolbox.

“Thank god,” he said, pushing his hair off his forehead with a wet hand. “I was about to start building an ark.”

“Where's it coming from?” I asked, keeping my tone professional as I waded into the mess.

“Under the sink, I think.” He pointed to the small kitchenette area where water was gushing steadily from beneath the cabinet. “I tried to find the shut-off valve, but...”

“It's behind the refrigerator,” I said, already moving that way. “Can you help me pull this out?”

Together we dragged the ancient refrigerator away from the wall, revealing the water shut-off valve. I cranked it closed, and the immediate crisis eased as the flow of water stopped. Then I got down on my knees, flashlight in hand, to inspect the damage under the sink.

“Looks like the old copper pipe finally corroded through,” I said, examining the jagged hole that had opened up. “Been warning facilities about these pipes for years.”

“Is it fixable?” Ethan asked, hovering nearby with a stack of soggy papers in his hands.

“Yeah, but not quickly. Need to replace this whole section.” I sat back on my heels, mentally calculating what supplies I'd need. “Got to drain what's left in the line, cut out the bad section, and solder in a replacement.”

“How long will that take?”

“Couple hours, minimum.” I glanced around at the standing water. “But first we need to get this water cleaned up before it causes more damage.”

“I'll help,” Ethan offered, setting down his water-logged papers. “Just tell me what to do.”

Despite my best efforts to maintain professional distance, we fell into an efficient rhythm. I showed him how to use the wet-vac while I started disassembling the damaged pipe section. The faculty lounge slowly emptied of other teachers, leaving just the two of us working in a strangely comfortable silence broken only by the hum of the vacuum and occasional instructions.

“I heard you applied to community college,” Ethan said finally.

I felt my shoulders tense. “News travels fast around here.”

“Eleanor mentioned it when I stopped by the diner yesterday.” He kept his tone casual, but I could hear the genuine interest behind it. “What are you thinking of studying?”

“Business administration,” I said, turning my attention back to the pipe. “Practical. Useful for the bookstore position Eleanor's offering.”

“Not literature?” The question carried no judgment, just curiosity.

“Don't have time to read for fun and for class,” I said, which was partially true. The whole truth was more complicated—literature reminds me too much of you, of us reading poetry on that old railroad bridge, of dreams I had to set aside. “Business makes more sense for where I am now.”

“That's great, Leo. Really.” His voice held genuine admiration that bridged some of the distance between us. “Starting is what matters.”

I nodded, uncomfortably aware of how his praise still affected me after all these years.

“I should check if maintenance has the replacement pipe in stock,” I said, standing up and wiping my hands on my work pants. “Keep vacuuming around the edges where most of the water pooled.”

As I walked to the door, trying to reestablish some distance, Ethan's voice stopped me.

“Leo?”

I turned, waiting.

“It's good to see you,” he said simply. “Even if it takes a plumbing disaster.”

I didn't know how to respond to the honesty in his voice, so I just nodded and stepped into the hallway, trying to ignore the way my heart was beating a little too fast in my chest.

* * *

Volunteeringat the food pantry had been my regular commitment at St. Mary's Community Center for years, a mutually beneficial arrangement where I contributed time in exchange for occasional emergency assistance during hard times. The center stood in the neutral territory between East and West Riverton, providing resources that helped bridge the town's economic divide. More importantly, it offered me refuge from the constant pressure of responsibility, a place where giving rather than managing replenished something essential in my spirit.

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