Page 57 of The Silence Between

“So... you're volunteering here now?” I asked, keeping my focus on organizing the shelves.

“Teaching a writing workshop for the after-school program on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” He started helping with the sorting without being asked, falling into the rhythm like we'd done this together before. “You've been coming here a while?”

“Since I first got custody of the kids. Sister Margaret helped navigate the legal process, connected us with resources when things were tight.” I sorted canned vegetables with practiced movements. “The center was a lifeline when we needed it most.”

Ethan nodded, continuing to help with the sorting. “She's an incredible woman. Reminds me a bit of Eleanor.”

“Cut from the same cloth,” I agreed. “Strong-willed women who get things done while everyone else is still talking about doing them.”

We worked in surprisingly comfortable silence for several minutes, the simple task creating a buffer that made interaction less fraught than in other contexts. But the realization that avoidance was becoming increasingly impossible settled heavily as I watched him integrate himself into yet another sphere of my carefully compartmentalized life.

“You're everywhere,” I said finally, the observation escaping before I could reconsider.

He looked up, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Small town. Hard to avoid people even when you're trying.”

“I know.” And I did know. His actions weren't deliberate incursions into my space, just natural movement through a community too small for complete separation. “It's just...”

“Complicated,” he finished when I didn't.

“Yeah.”

The simple acknowledgment hovered between us—recognition that circumstance rather than choice continued to thrust us into each other's orbits, that avoidance strategies were becoming increasingly futile against Riverton's interconnected geography.

“I should get these books sorted before heading out,” Ethan said, breaking the silence. “The after-school kids are waiting.”

“Yeah, I need to finish up here too.” I gestured vaguely at the remaining cans. “Places to be, toilets to unclog.”

He smiled at that, a real smile that hit me harder than it should have. “The glamorous life of a multi-jobbed man.”

“Living the dream,” I deadpanned, and for just a second, it felt almost normal between us.

As he left with a casual wave, I found myself staring at the door longer than necessary, wondering if this bizarre game of Riverton roulette would ever get easier.

* * *

When I draggedmyself up the stairs to our apartment after a brutal shift fixing the Henderson's ancient plumbing, muscles aching and clothes still damp from the pipes that had decided to give me an impromptu shower. All I wanted was a hot shower, a cold beer, and maybe five minutes of peace before starting dinner.

Instead, I unlocked the door and froze at the sound of laughter coming from inside. Not just any laughter—Sophie's high-pitched giggle mixed with a deeper voice that made my stomach drop. I pushed the door open to a scene that stopped me dead.

Ethan was sitting at our kitchen table, geometry textbook open beside a stack of papers, Sophie and Diego on either side of him. Notebooks, calculators, and half-empty glasses of water scattered across the surface. The smell of something cooking filled the apartment—definitely not the mac and cheese I'd planned.

“Leo!” Sophie looked up, her face lighting up. “Mr. Webb is helping with our homework. Did you know he's actually good at math even though he teaches English?”

“I did,” I managed, setting down my toolbox, trying to process why Ethan was casually hanging out in my kitchen like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I had a question about our poetry assignment,” Sophie explained, words tumbling out fast. “And Mr. Webb said he was in the neighborhood, so he offered to stop by. Then Diego got stuck on his geometry proof, and Mr. Webb showed him this cool trick...”

“And you invited him for dinner,” I finished, eyeing the pot simmering on the stove.

“I hope that's okay,” Ethan said, looking genuinely uncomfortable. “I told Sophie I should check with you first, but...”

“But I said you wouldn't mind,” Sophie finished, completely oblivious to the complicated history between her brother and her teacher.

I set down my keys, feeling Diego watching us both with that weird sixth sense he'd developed for adult tension. The kid missed nothing.

“Of course it's fine,” I lied, years of keeping my problems away from my siblings making the words come automatically. “What's cooking?”

“Pasta with actual vegetables,” Diego said, sounding surprised by this concept. “Mr. Webb said frozen pizza doesn't count as a food group.”

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