Page 85 of After the Rain

The meeting ended with concrete action plans spreading across multiple fronts. Legal strategy coordinated with Dr. Marlow. Community organizing managed by Brook and Jazz. Media outreach handled by some of the teachers who had experience with public relations. Fundraising for my mountinglegal costs organized by the business owners who understood the real cost of justice.

But more importantly, I left feeling part of something larger than my personal struggle. This had become a community fight for the soul of Cedar Falls, and I was no longer fighting alone.

The drive to Riverside Park felt like traveling backward through time. Every landmark reminded me of happier moments—the ice cream shop where Cooper had convinced Ezra to try seventeen different flavors, the crosswalk where I'd first held Ezra's hand in public, the bridge where we'd stood watching Cooper chase ducks while planning a future that had seemed so possible just days ago.

I found Ezra sitting alone on our bench by the river, staring at the water like it might hold answers to questions he couldn't articulate. He looked broken in ways I'd never seen—not just sad, but defeated, like someone who'd lost faith in the possibility of happiness.

The sight broke my heart all over again.

"Hey," I said softly, settling beside him on the bench where we'd shared our first real conversation about being more than friends.

"Hey." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me."

"Why wouldn't I want to see you?"

"Because this is all my fault." Ezra turned to face me, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and unshed tears. "If I hadn't pushed for more, if I'd kept my distance like I should have, Cooper would still be with you. You'd still have your son."

"Ezra, stop."

"I can't stop. I keep thinking about what Cooper asked that morning—if he did something wrong because he loved me. I've made that little boy think love is dangerous, that caring about people gets them hurt. What kind of person does that make me?"

The circular guilt was eating him alive, and I recognized the pattern because I'd been trapped in it myself. Blaming ourselves for other people's prejudice, taking responsibility for hatred that belonged to the Fletchers and their allies.

"It makes you human," I said, reaching for his hand. "It makes you someone who loves deeply and hurts when that love is used as a weapon. But Ezra, you didn't do this to Cooper. They did."

"I should have stayed away. Should have known that getting involved with you would only cause problems."

"And I should have protected you both better. Should have seen this coming and prepared for it." I squeezed his fingers, feeling how cold they were despite the warm evening. "We can blame ourselves all night, or we can focus on fixing what's broken."

Ezra was quiet for a long moment, watching the river flow past us toward whatever future waited downstream. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who'd given up on hope.

"What if we can't fix it? What if this is just how it ends—Cooper confused and hurt, you losing custody, me destroying everything I touch?"

"Then we'll have tried everything we could. But Ezra, I'm not giving up on us. I'm not choosing between you and Cooper because you're both my family. We're going to fight this together, and we're going to win."

I told him about the meeting at Brook's house, about the growing coalition of support, about Uncle John's religious liberty strategy and Dr. Vasquez's research. With each detail, I watched something shift in Ezra's expression—not quite hope yet, but the possibility of hope.

"You really think we have a chance?"

"I think we have something they don't expect—a community that believes in us. The Fletchers are counting on us being isolated, on people being too scared or apathetic to get involved. But they miscalculated."

Ezra leaned against my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around him, pulling him close. We sat like that as darkness fell over the river, holding each other and planning our counterattack.

"Whatever happens in court, we face it together," Ezra whispered against my neck. "No more sacrificing our relationship for other people's comfort. No more hiding who we are."

"Together," I agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Our reunion kiss by the river carried the weight of shared loss and renewed commitment. We'd both learned that love without courage was incomplete, that authenticity required fighting for the right to exist openly. This wasn't just about getting Cooper back—it was about creating a community where children like Cooper could grow up seeing diverse expressions of love and family.

The phone call from Sarah came the next evening while Ezra and I were making dinner together, trying to rebuild the domestic routines that had made us feel like a family. Sarah's voice was tight with urgency and barely controlled anger.

"Wade, we need to talk. About Cooper, about what my parents are doing to him."

I put the call on speaker so Ezra could hear, both of us suddenly focused on Sarah's words instead of the pasta we'd been preparing.

"What's happening?"

"He's been asking increasingly difficult questions about why he can't see his father and Mr. Mitchell, why Grandpa and Grandma Fletcher seem angry all the time, why the grown-ups are fighting about love. Wade, he's not stupid. He knows something is very wrong, and he's starting to blame himself."

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