Page 60 of The Silence Between

“You're lucky I was too tired to manage it,” I said, but there was no edge to it.

When I walked him to the door, there was an awkward moment where neither of us seemed to know the right way to say goodbye. We weren't friends, exactly, but we weren't strangers either. We were something undefined, suspended between our past and whatever this new reality was becoming.

“See you around,” he said finally, with a small smile that felt like a peace offering.

“Yeah,” I replied, finding I actually meant it. “See you around.”

After he left, I stood at the door longer than necessary, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. The apartment felt different somehow, like his brief presence had shifted something fundamental that I couldn't quite name.

At 2:30 AM, I gave up on sleep and found myself walking to the old railroad bridge, or what was left of it anyway. Tonight, after finding Ethan casually hanging out in our house like it was the most natural thing in the world, my brain refused to shut down.

I sat on the edge of the concrete, feet swinging above the dark water, absently running my fingers over the layers of graffiti. There were the usual suspects: badly drawn anatomical parts, declarations of undying teenage love, and various initials surrounded by plus signs and hearts. Tucked in one corner, almost washed away by years of rain, was our own contribution: E.W. + L.R., carved with his Swiss Army knife during one of those rare perfect nights when anything seemed possible.

I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, I saw a familiar shape walking toward me through the darkness, like my reminiscing had somehow summoned him from thin air.

Ethan stopped short when he noticed me, clearly as surprised by my presence as I was by his. “Leo?”

“Couldn't sleep either?” I asked, too tired to act surprised or come up with some excuse to leave.

“Too many thoughts.” He approached slowly, like he was giving me time to escape if I wanted. “Mind if I join you?”

I shrugged and scooted over a bit on the concrete ledge. He sat down, leaving enough space between us that we weren't touching. We both stared at the water instead of looking at each other.

“I used to think about this place a lot while I was in Seattle,” he said after a while. “Even after... you know. Something about this spot stuck with me.”

“It's the only place in Riverton that isn't clearly East or West,” I pointed out. “Neutral territory.”

We fell quiet for a few minutes, just listening to the water below and occasional cars passing in the distance.

“This whole avoiding each other thing isn't working out great,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

“Not in a town this size,” he agreed. “I turn around and there you are.”

“And there you are in my kitchen, helping Diego with math,” I added, not quite keeping the accusation out of my voice.

He glanced at me. “Should I have just walked away when he asked for help?”

“No,” I admitted. “That wouldn't be fair to him.”

“So where does that leave us?”

I picked at a loose piece of concrete. “I don't know. I didn't exactly plan for you to suddenly reappear in Riverton after ten years.”

“I didn't exactly plan it either,” he said. “The teaching position just came up at the right time.”

“Right time for what?”

He took a deep breath. “For a change. Seattle wasn't what I thought it would be anymore.”

“The successful author getting bored with city life?” I couldn't help the edge in my voice.

“The guy who realized he was writing about life instead of living it,” he corrected, not rising to the bait. “Big difference.”

That silenced me for a moment. I'd built up such a specific image of his perfect literary career that this vulnerability didn't fit.

“Look,” he said, turning to face me. “We're going to keep running into each other. My students talk about the cool librarian who helps them with research. Eleanor mentions you every time I stop by the bookstore. Your siblings apparently think I'm still decent at explaining algebra. We can't keep pretending we're strangers.”

“So what's your suggestion? Become best friends?” The sarcasm was a reflex, a defense mechanism.

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