Page 15 of After the Rain

SEVEN

STORM'S EYE

WADE

T hree days of minimal contact with Ezra had me feeling like I was coming out of my skin.

I told myself it was normal to miss a friend. People missed friends all the time when circumstances got complicated. But driving to Riverside Park Wednesday evening with Cooper chattering in the backseat, I couldn't shake the feeling that my reaction to Ezra's sudden distance was far from normal.

The work day had been a disaster. I'd made three calculation errors on the Henderson project blueprints and caught myself staring out the office window instead of focusing on structural load requirements. My partner, Marcus, had finally asked if I was feeling sick.

"Just tired," I'd told him, which wasn't exactly a lie. I'd been sleeping like shit since Monday, tossing and turning while my brain replayed every interaction I'd had with Ezra, looking for clues about what had changed and why it mattered so damn much.

Sarah had called during lunch to discuss Cooper's weekend schedule, and I'd found myself distracted even during that routine conversation. When she'd asked if I was seeing someone new, the question had hit me like a brick to the chest.

"Why would you ask that?" I'd said, probably too defensively.

"You sound different. Happier, but also kind of... unsettled? Like when you're working on a design problem you can't quite solve."

The observation was uncomfortably accurate. I did feel like I was trying to solve a problem, except the problem seemed to be myself.

The park had always been our safe space, mine and Cooper's. A place to clear my head and focus on what really mattered—being his dad. But tonight, even Cooper's excited commentary about school couldn't distract me from the restless energy humming under my skin.

"Tommy brought a real snake skin to show-and-tell today," Cooper was saying.

"It was from his uncle's pet snake, and Madison screamed so loud that Mrs. Patterson came running from next door.

But I thought it was really cool because you could see all the patterns and it felt like leather but thinner. "

"That does sound cool, buddy."

"Mr. Mitchell said snakes shed their skin when they outgrow it, like how I outgrow my shoes. He said sometimes people change too, but they keep their same skin." Cooper paused thoughtfully. "Do you think people can change on the inside even if they look the same on the outside?"

The question was so innocently profound that it made my chest tight. "Yeah, I think people can change and grow throughout their lives."

"Good. Because I want to change into someone who's really good at building things like you."

"You're already really good at building things, Cooper. And you're only six. Imagine how good you'll be when you're my age."

"Will you still help me build things when I'm old like you?"

"I'm not old," I protested. "And yes, I'll help you build things for as long as you want me to."

The conversation should have grounded me, reminded me of what was important. Instead, it made me think about Ezra.

"Daddy, can we feed the ducks after I play?" Cooper asked, already unbuckling his seatbelt before I'd fully stopped the truck.

"We'll see if they're around tonight, buddy."

He raced toward the playground with typical six-year-old energy while I settled on our usual bench, watching other families navigate their evening routines.

A Latina grandmother pushed her grandchild on the swings, calling out encouragement in Spanish.

Two mothers in hijabs chatted while their children played together.

Normal people living normal lives, none of them apparently struggling with feelings they couldn't name.

My mind kept drifting to Monday morning's drop-off, how carefully professional Ezra had been.

The easy warmth we'd built over the past weeks had disappeared behind polite teacher smiles and appropriate boundaries.

I understood the professional concerns—at least intellectually—but emotionally, the distance felt like rejection.

Which made no sense. Teachers maintained professional boundaries with parents all the time. It wasn't personal.

So why did it feel personal? Why did I find myself driving past the school during my lunch break, hoping to catch a glimpse of him on playground duty?

I was still wrestling with that question when I spotted a familiar figure walking alone on the river path. Ezra moved with that same thoughtful pace I'd noticed before, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the evening breeze.

Even from a distance, I could read the tension in his posture. He looked like someone working through a problem, and I wondered if he was thinking about the same complications that had been keeping me awake at night.

My immediate impulse to approach him surprised me with its intensity. My heart actually started beating faster, like I was a teenager working up the courage to talk to a crush. The comparison made me uncomfortable but I couldn't deny the accuracy.

"Cooper, I'll be right back," I called to my son, who was attempting to traverse the entire playground without touching the ground.

"Okay, Daddy! Watch me be a ninja!"

Before I could second-guess myself, I was walking toward the path, my pulse hammering in a way that felt entirely disproportionate to a simple conversation with a friend.

"Ezra."

He turned at the sound of my voice, and his face lit up for just a moment before professional caution took over. That brief, unguarded smile hit me square in the chest.

"Wade. Hi." He glanced toward the playground where Cooper was conquering the monkey bars. "Evening walk?"

"Cooper needed to burn off some energy. You?"

"Same. Well, different kind of energy." He managed a self-deprecating smile. "Teaching kindergarteners is like conducting an orchestra of caffeinated squirrels some days."

The easy humor felt like a glimpse of the friendship we'd been building, and I realized how much I'd missed his laugh. The way his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, the genuine warmth in his voice.

"How's Cooper adjusting to everything?" Ezra asked, nodding toward the playground where my son was now demonstrating his monkey bar skills to an imaginary audience.

"Better than I expected."

Something flickered across Ezra's face—pleasure, maybe, or regret. "I'm glad."

"Daddy!" Cooper's voice carried across the playground. "Mr. Mitchell! Come push me on the swings!"

The request hung in the air between us. Ezra looked toward Cooper, then back at me, and I could see the internal battle playing out across his features. Professional caution warred with genuine affection for my son.

"It's okay," I said quietly. "He's just excited to see you."

Ezra hesitated for another moment, then his shoulders dropped slightly. "Just for a few minutes," he said, but I caught the relief in his voice.

Cooper's enthusiasm was infectious, and despite his obvious reservations, Ezra couldn't resist joining us at the playground. Watching him interact with Cooper with such natural affection, I felt that same inexplicable warmth I'd been trying to ignore all week.

But now I found myself paying attention to other details.

The way Ezra's cardigan stretched across his shoulders when he reached up to steady Cooper on the monkey bars.

How his hair caught the evening light when he threw his head back, laughing at something Cooper said.

The careful way he positioned himself close enough to help but far enough to maintain appropriate distance.

When had I started noticing these things about him?

"Mr. Mitchell, watch this!" Cooper launched himself from the swing at the peak of its arc, landing in a superhero crouch that would have given me a heart attack if I hadn't seen him practice it a dozen times.

"Impressive form," Ezra said seriously. "I'd give that landing a solid eight out of ten."

"Only eight?" Cooper protested, hands on his hips in mock outrage. "That was at least a nine!"

"The landing was perfect," Ezra conceded, "but you could have stuck the pose longer for dramatic effect."

Cooper nodded thoughtfully, processing this feedback like it came from an Olympic judge. "I'll work on that. Daddy, did you see my superhero landing? Mr. Mitchell says I need to work on my dramatic timing."

"I saw it, buddy. Very impressive. But maybe we should save the flying for when you're wearing actual superhero gear."

"Superheroes don't need special gear," Cooper informed me with six-year-old authority. "They just need courage and good aim. Right, Mr. Mitchell?"

"Courage is definitely important," Ezra agreed diplomatically. "But so is safety equipment. Even superheroes wear protection when they're doing dangerous stunts."

Cooper considered this seriously while racing ahead to the walking path that circled the park.

Ezra and I fell into step behind him, and I found myself hyperaware of the space between us.

When his arm brushed mine as we navigated around a family with a stroller, the brief contact sent electricity up my arm.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable somehow," I said finally, needing to address the awkwardness between us. "I know you said you needed to maintain professional boundaries, and I respect that. I just... I value our friendship. I don't want things to be weird between us."

Even as I said "friendship," the word felt inadequate for what I'd been feeling.

Ezra's response was carefully measured, and I could see him choosing his words with deliberate caution. "You didn't make me uncomfortable, Wade. It's just that in a small town, people notice when teachers spend time with parents outside of school contexts. I have to be careful about appearances."

"But it shouldn't matter what people think if we're just friends, right?"

The question came out more intense than I'd intended. Why was I so invested in this?