Page 91 of The Silence Between

“It wasn't wrong,” I said gently. “What you did kept them safe, together, loved. That matters more than anything.”

“But it's not sustainable. I see that now.” He exhaled slowly. “I can't be everything to everyone all the time. I'll break again, probably worse next time.”

“So you accept help. You build a support system. You let people care about you too, not just them.”

“People?” he asked, a hint of something like amusement coloring his voice. “Or you specifically?”

The direct question caught me off guard. Leo had always been the cautious one, the one maintaining careful boundaries, the one keeping conversation in safe territory. This new directness, born from his breaking point and tentative reconstruction, still surprised me.

“Both,” I admitted. “But yes, me specifically. If that's what you want.”

Leo's hand moved slowly, deliberately, until it covered mine where it rested on the concrete between us. The touch was gentle but purposeful, his semicolon tattoo visible against my skin.

“I don't know exactly what I want yet,” he said honestly. “Everything's still raw from falling apart. But I know I'm tired of pretending you don't matter to me. Of acting like there isn't still something here, after all this time. We're writing something different than before,”

“But it's still our story,” I finished.

We sat together in comfortable silence, watching the lights of Riverton reflect on the dark water below. Leo's hand remained on mine, solid and warm and real. Not a promise of forever, not a resolution to every complication, but a beginning.

19

CAUTIOUS HOPE

LEO

The community college enrollment form stared up at me from the admissions office desk like it was judging my handwriting skills. Blank spaces waited for me to commit something to paper beyond grocery lists and work schedules. Two evening Business Administration courses. Six credit hours. A toe dipped back into the life I'd surrendered when I became my siblings' guardian a decade ago.

“Just sign at the bottom, Mr. Reyes,” the admissions counselor said, sliding a pen across the desk. “Classes start next month.”

My hand hovered over the signature line, a moment of vertigo washing over me. This wasn't just paperwork. This was the first step toward something I'd buried so deep I'd almost forgotten it existed, the version of myself that had once dreamed of college, of a degree, of a life defined by more than just surviving on ramen and coffee.

“You'll be joining quite a few returning adult students,” the counselor continued, misreading my hesitation. “People with jobs, families. We structure these evening classes specifically for students with other responsibilities.”

I nodded, finally pressing pen to paper. My signature looked strange to me, used to signing permission slips and work timecards rather than claiming something for myself. It almost felt like I was forging someone else's signature.

“Once you're registered, we'll send information about the textbooks you'll need,” she said, taking the completed form. “Introduction to Business and Financial Accounting Basics, correct?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, the course titles alone creating a quiet thrill beneath my ribs. Accounting Basics—the words practically screamed party time.

“Excellent choices. Returning students often bring valuable life perspective to these practical courses.” She handed me a carbon copy of the registration along with a campus map. “Welcome to Riverton Community College, Mr. Reyes.”

As I left the building, the campus around me bustled with late summer activity, students lounging on patches of grass between buildings, staff preparing for the approaching fall semester, life continuing in its ordinary miracle. I checked my watch, calculating the hours before my shift at Second Chapter and when Mari would need the car to take Diego to practice. Always with the mental math, like my brain was a calculator that never turned off.

The scheduling tetris that had once seemed an insurmountable obstacle to education now represented a puzzle requiring solution rather than an absolute barrier. Night classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Mari was home. Study time during Sophie's art lessons. Textbook costs built into the budget through reduced coffee purchases and one less streaming service. Sorry, obscure cooking show marathon, education wins this round.

It could work. It would work. After ten years of putting everyone else first, I was claiming these few hours a week for myself. Not at their expense, but alongside their needs. The idea still felt radical, dangerous even, that I could want something beyond mere survival without being selfish. Like treating myself to dessert when I'd been living on vegetables for a decade.

One step at a time. That had gotten us through a decade of impossible challenges. It would get me through this, too.

* * *

“A little higher on the left,”I directed, watching Diego adjust the banner spanning the front windows of Second Chapter Bookstore. “Perfect. Now secure that corner.”

The afternoon sun filtered through the glass, casting warm rectangles across the hardwood floors where Sophie arranged program booklets on a display table. Her original artwork decorated the cover, swirling designs incorporating book spines and pencils, each one hand colored in vibrant blues and greens. Kid had talent that made my stick figures look like they were drawn by an actual stick.

“The refreshment table looks amazing, Mari,” I called toward the back of the store, where my sister was arranging a spread that somehow looked elegant despite our limited budget. “Eleanor will be impressed.”

Pride swelled in my chest as I surveyed the transformed space. The student writing showcase had started as a professional collaboration with Ethan, a way to connect the high school's creative writing program with the community, but had evolved into something more. Not just a bookstore event, but a bridge between worlds that had remained stubbornly separate in Riverton, like the two sides of town had been having a decade-long staring contest.

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