Page 59 of The Silence Between

Ethan hesitated. “Actually, I'm taking a break from fiction at the moment. Focusing on teaching.”

“But you're still writing, right?” Sophie pressed. “Leo says real writers always write, even when nobody's paying them.”

I nearly choked on my pasta. “When did I say that?”

“When I asked why you still have all those notebooks even though you work like a million jobs,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Ethan raised an eyebrow at me. “Notebooks?”

“Just work stuff,” I muttered, suddenly very interested in my pasta. “Invoices, measurements, that kind of thing.”

Sophie rolled her eyes dramatically. “He writes poetry when he thinks we're sleeping. I've seen him.”

“Sophie!” I felt heat creeping up my neck.

“What? It's not a secret,” she said, completely unrepentant. “You're always scratching in that black notebook at like midnight.”

Ethan was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. “I didn't know you still wrote.”

“I don't,” I said firmly. “Just... notes and stuff. Nothing real.”

He nodded, but the look he gave me said he didn't believe that for a second.

After dinner, when Sophie went to her room to finish homework and Diego disappeared into the bathroom for his nightly hour-long shower, I found myself alone with Ethan as we cleared the table.

“You didn't have to cook,” I said, scraping plates into the trash. “Or help with their homework.”

“I know.” He stacked dishes by the sink. “But Diego really was struggling with those proofs, and I actually enjoy cooking. Seemed like a win-win.”

I ran water in the sink, avoiding his eyes. “Well, thanks. It was good.”

“High praise from Leo Reyes.” His voice had that teasing tone I remembered too well.

“Don't get used to it.” I handed him a wet plate to dry. “This isn't going to be a regular thing.”

“What isn't? Me showing up uninvited or you admitting my cooking's decent?”

Despite myself, I cracked a smile. “Both.”

We washed dishes in companionable silence for a minute before he spoke again.

“They're great kids, Leo.”

The simple sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. “I had help. Eleanor, Sister Margaret. Half the town, really.”

“Still.” He placed a dried plate in the cabinet. “Most people your age would have crumbled under that kind of responsibility. You didn't.”

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “Didn't have much choice.”

“That's not true, and you know it.” His voice was quiet but firm. “There were always choices. Harder ones, sure, but they existed. You chose this. Them.”

I didn't know how to respond to that. He was right, but hearing him say it so plainly made my throat tight.

“Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “I should probably head out. Let you guys have your night.”

“Yeah, Sophie has her show on at eight. Big dramatic production if she misses it.”

He dried his hands on a dish towel, looking around the small kitchen like he was committing it to memory. “Thanks for not throwing me out when you got home.”

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