Page 95 of The Silence Between

As darkness settled over the Pacific, the lighthouse beam began its steady sweep across the water, and I made my decision. Not with dramatic certainty, but with cautious determination, the same approach that had guided every important choice since I became my siblings' guardian. Eyes open to the complexities, aware of the risks, but unwilling to foreclose possibility out of fear alone.

I pulled out my phone, composing a text to Ethan before I could talk myself out of it:

Leo

Would you like to have dinner Friday? Just us. After Sophie's at her sleepover and Mari takes Diego to his friend's house.

Simple words that nonetheless made my heart race as I hit send. Not a declaration or a promise, but an invitation to explore what might exist between us beyond crisis management and professional partnership. A step toward something I'd denied myself for so long I'd almost forgotten how to want it.

His response came almost immediately.

Ethan

I'd love that.

The quiet joy that bloomed in my chest felt dangerous in its intensity, hope being a particularly painful form of vulnerability when you've learned how quickly it can be extinguished. But as I stood to leave, tucking my phone away with its confirmation of Friday plans, I allowed that fragile feeling to remain rather than immediately tamping it down.

20

DEEPENING CONNECTION

ETHAN

Istood outside Leo's apartment door Friday evening, heart pounding in my chest like I was sixteen again. The bottle of wine in one hand and bakery box in the other suddenly felt like pretty lame offerings for what tonight meant. But before I could overthink it, I knocked.

Leo opened the door, and the sight of him momentarily knocked the wind out of me. He wasn't dressed fancy or anything, just dark jeans and a blue button-down that looked really good on him, but it was clear he'd actually thought about what to wear rather than just grabbing whatever was clean.

“Hi,” he said, a tentative smile crossing his face. “Come in.”

The apartment looked different from my last visit. Not like he'd done major renovations or anything, but there were little touches everywhere that showed he'd prepared. The living room was cleaner than usual. He'd set up a small table near the kitchen with actual cloth napkins and plates that matched. Music played softly in the background, some acoustic guitar stuff I didn't recognize.

“It smells amazing in here,” I said, following him into the kitchen where pots were simmering on the stove.

“Just enchiladas. Nothing special.” But I could see how much work he'd put in: homemade sauce bubbling away, fresh cilantro chopped on a cutting board, a bowl of dough that meant he'd made tortillas from scratch.

“It looks pretty special to me,” I said. “Thanks for cooking.”

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the compliment. “It's just food.”

But we both knew it wasn't just food. It was time he'd somehow found in his crazy schedule, effort he'd made when he was probably exhausted, care he'd taken when he had a million other things demanding his attention.

I set the wine and bakery box on the counter, then pulled out the opener I'd brought, figuring he might not have one. “Wine? Or is that too much?”

“Wine's good.” He pulled two mismatched wine glasses from a cabinet. “Got these at Goodwill. Don't use them much.”

I poured us each a glass, then followed him to the table where he was setting out the food. We started with safe topics at first. But as we ate, things got more personal. Leo asked about my writing, not the published stuff but what I was working on now, if anything. I admitted I hadn't written anything new in months.

“The words don't come anymore,” I confessed. “Or when they do, they feel fake, like I'm just going through the motions.”

“Writer's block?”

“More like writer's crisis of faith.” I swirled the wine in my glass, watching it catch the light. “I lost track of why I was writing. It became about sales numbers and reviews instead of having something to say.”

Leo nodded, getting it without me having to explain more. “Like when work is just about paying bills, not meaning anything.”

“Exactly,” I said, surprised by how perfectly he'd nailed it. “But you've found meaning at the bookstore, haven't you? I've seen how you light up there.”

His face softened, guard dropping for a moment. “Yeah. It's the first job that's ever felt like more than just a paycheck. Even when I'm tired, I don't hate being there.”

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