Page 11 of The Silence Between

11

INEVITABLE COLLISION

LEO

S team rose from the pot of spaghetti as I dumped it into the colander, the familiar Sunday evening rhythm playing out in our small kitchen. These weekly family dinners had become our constant when everything else in life shifted unpredictably. No matter how many hours I'd worked, what bills loomed, or what crises threatened, Sunday dinner remained sacred—the four of us at our scratched table, together.

“Five-minute warning,” I called over my shoulder, knowing Mari was helping Sophie with homework while Diego set the table.

“Can we have garlic bread?” Diego asked, appearing at my elbow with plates already in hand.

“Already in the oven,” I confirmed, gesturing toward the timer counting down. “Get drinks sorted?”

He nodded and moved to the refrigerator with the quiet efficiency of a sixteen-year-old who'd been handling household responsibilities for years. The subtle shift in our dynamic over the past year hadn't escaped my notice.

So much was changing. The stability I'd fought ten years to build now seemed sturdy enough to withstand evolution, but the prospect of change still triggered the old panic, the fear that any deviation from tested patterns might collapse everything.

“Leo, the sauce is bubbling over,” Mari's voice cut through my thoughts, her hand already reaching past me to lower the heat. “Where'd you go just now?”

“Nowhere,” I lied. “Just tired.”

Her raised eyebrow communicated clear disbelief, but she let it pass. “Sophie's bouncing off the walls about some English assignment,” she said instead. “Fair warning.”

The table soon filled with mismatched plates, the pasta simple but abundant, garlic bread sliced and slightly burned on one edge the way Diego secretly preferred it. As we settled into our places, I studied the three faces that had oriented my life for a decade—Mari's sharp intelligence, Diego's cautious watchfulness, Sophie's open enthusiasm. My family, preserved despite every system designed to separate us.

“So,” I began, our standard dinnertime opening, “how was everyone's week?”

Sophie practically vibrated with excitement, energy barely contained. “My English teacher assigned the coolest project,” she burst out. “We have to create an alternative ending to Romeo and Juliet where they don't die. And he said mine was one of the best in class!”

“That's great, Soph,” I said, serving her pasta. “What was your ending?”

“Juliet wakes up before Romeo takes the poison, and they run away to Venice to become actors in a theater company.” Her explanation gained momentum, hands gesturing dramatically. “Mr. Webb said it was 'thematically resonant' because they escape the tragedy by embracing art instead of death.”

My hand froze mid-serve, sauce dripping slowly onto the tablecloth. Mr. Webb. The name I'd been hearing whispered around town, the rumors I'd dismissed as coincidence, suddenly confirmed with devastating casualness over Sunday dinner.

“Mr. Webb?” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice neutral. “The new English teacher?”

Sophie nodded enthusiastically. “He's so cool. He's a real writer—published three novels. But he says teaching is more meaningful than being famous.” She twirled spaghetti on her fork. “He lets us call books stupid if we can explain why. Most teachers get mad if you criticize the classics.”

I nodded mechanically, mind racing as Sophie continued describing classroom discussions and book recommendations. Ethan. Here. Teaching my sister. The boundaries between past and present collapsing with terrifying speed.

What struck me most painfully was recognizing the teaching approach she described—the passion for literature we'd once shared, the belief that connecting to books mattered more than academic analysis, the genuine rather than performative engagement with ideas. This was the Ethan I had known, the essence unchanged despite whatever success had followed him after Riverton.

“Oh, and Diego has news too,” Sophie added, apparently satisfied with her own update. “Tell them about yesterday, D.”

Diego, who had been quietly focused on his food, shot Sophie a betrayed look. “It wasn't a big deal.”

“What happened yesterday?” I asked, tension coiling tighter in my chest.

Diego shrugged, pushing pasta around his plate. “Some jerks from school were messing with me at the basketball courts. Took my calculator.”

“What?” My protective instinct flared immediately. “Who?”

“Doesn't matter. A teacher stopped them.” Diego's studied casualness couldn't quite mask his discomfort. “Made them give it back.”

“A teacher? On a Saturday?”

“Yeah. Mr. Webb.” Diego looked up. “You know him?”

I took a deep breath, aware of all three siblings watching me now with varying degrees of curiosity. “Yes, I know him. We went to high school together.” I paused, then added, “You two probably don't remember him, but he used to come over sometimes. You two were very young.”

“Wait,” Mari interjected, recognition dawning in her eyes. “Tall guy? Glasses sometimes? Used to bring those chocolate cookies from that bakery on Main?”

I nodded, surprised by her memory. “That's him.”

“I remember him,” Mari said, her gaze sharpening. “He helped me with homework a few times.”

Diego frowned, clearly trying and failing to access any memory. “I don't remember him.”

“You wouldn't,” I said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why haven't you mentioned him before?” Sophie asked,

“It never came up,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by miles. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

Mari's eyes hadn't left my face, her expression suggesting she was piecing together far more than I wanted to share over spaghetti. “Small town,” she said, echoing my earlier thought. “People always circle back.”

I nodded and deliberately changed the subject to safer territory. But my mind remained fixed on the unavoidable fact: Ethan Webb had returned to Riverton.

Inevitably, we would meet. The only questions were when, where, and whether I could maintain the protective walls I'd built when that moment came.

* * *

The high school corridors echoed with that particular emptiness that belongs to buildings designed for crowds but temporarily abandoned. My janitorial cart squeaked slightly as I pushed it through the math wing, the sound amplified in the late-night silence. 11:45 PM, and every shadow, every distant sound, carried the possibility of an encounter I wasn't prepared to face.

I'd already cleaned the science labs and gymnasium, saving the English department for last—or possibly skipping it entirely if my other tasks ran long. Strategic avoidance, a holding pattern while I figured out how to navigate this new reality where my workplace had transformed from reliable income into potential emotional minefield.

Passing the library, I noticed light spilling from beneath the door which was unusual for this hour unless a teacher was working late. I could pretend I hadn't seen it, continue to the next section, avoid potential confrontation.

But habit and responsibility won out. I knocked perfunctorily on the door before pushing it open, immediately recognizing my mistake.

Ethan sat alone at a table surrounded by books and papers, grading assignments with such absorption he hadn't registered my interruption. For one suspended moment, I observed unnoticed—cataloging a decade's changes in features both familiar and transformed.

His hair was shorter now, styled rather than the perpetually disheveled look from high school. Wire-rimmed glasses I didn't remember perched on his nose. Professional attire—button-down shirt with sleeves rolled to elbows, tie loosened after a long day—replaced the hoodies and jeans of our youth. Lines at the corners of his eyes suggested laugh lines or worry lines or both. But beneath these alterations, the fundamental essence remained recognizable—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way he absently pushed hair back from his forehead, the total focus he gave to whatever captured his attention.

The frozen tableau shattered when he glanced up, recognition immediate and absolute.

Our eyes met across the room. Neither of us spoke initially, shock rendering language inadequate. When Ethan finally broke the silence, it was with a single word that carried a decade of unresolved emotion.

“Leo.”

“Sorry to interrupt. Just checking lights.”

“You work here,” he said, not quite a question.

“Night maintenance. Seven years now.” I gestured vaguely with my key ring.

He half-rose from his chair. “I knew... Marcus mentioned... but I wasn't expecting...” He stopped, seeming to recognize the futility of completing any of these sentences.

“I should let you get back to work,” I said, already retreating toward the door, pulse thundering in my ears. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Leo, wait?—“

But I was already pulling the door closed behind me, moving down the corridor at a pace just short of running, cleaning cart abandoned and forgotten outside the library.

In the empty bathroom at the end of the hall, I gripped the sink's cold porcelain, staring at my reflection in the institutional mirror. The face looking back appeared calm, composed, unchanged from twenty minutes ago. Only the whiteness of my knuckles betrayed the earthquake happening beneath the surface.

Ten years. Ten years of careful compartmentalization, of rebuilding a life around responsibility rather than personal desire, of transforming teenage heartbreak into distant memory. Yet one glimpse, one word, and everything I'd buried resurfaced with devastating immediacy.

I splashed cold water on my face, the shock providing momentary clarity. Nothing had really changed. Ethan's return complicated things, yes, but my priorities remained the same. Everything else was secondary, including whatever ghosts his presence had awakened.

With deliberate movements, I returned to my cart and continued my rounds, bypassing the library entirely. The English department could wait until tomorrow night. Or the night after. Or forever, if necessity permitted.

* * *

The following afternoon found me seeking refuge in Second Chapter Bookstore during a rare free hour between the diner and my evening handyman job. I'd been drawn here instinctively, returning to the space that had offered safety when home couldn't, when the pressures of guardianship overwhelmed, when I needed quiet that didn't feel like isolation.

Eleanor looked up from her inventory clipboard as the bell announced my entrance, her silver hair elegantly coiled at the nape of her neck. “Right on time,” she said, though we hadn't scheduled a meeting. “I've pulled the management manuals for you to review.”

The practical focus of her greeting felt like a lifeline—something concrete to discuss rather than the emotional turmoil that had kept me awake most of the night.

“Thanks,” I said, following her to the small office behind the counter. “I can start looking at the accounting software this week.”

She waved this away. “Plenty of time for that. Sit. You look like you haven't slept.”

The familiar ritual of Eleanor preparing tea created space for my tightly-wound nerves to loosen slightly.

“So,” she said, settling into her chair with a cup of Earl Grey, “let's talk about what this position would actually entail.” She pushed a folder toward me. “Full-time assistant manager to start. Thirty-five hours a week, with benefits after ninety days.”

I opened the folder, eyebrows rising at the salary figure. It was modest by most standards but significantly more than I was making cobbling together my current jobs.

“You'd learn the ordering system, staff scheduling, event coordination,” Eleanor continued, ticking points off on her fingers. “Eventually taking over the monthly book club and author events.”

“That's a lot of responsibility,” I said, scanning the detailed job description. “Are you sure I'm qualified?”

Eleanor fixed me with the same look she'd given me when I'd questioned whether I could handle AP English as a sophomore. “You've been working three jobs while raising three siblings and maintaining excellent grades. I'd say you're overqualified in time management and responsibility.”

“Fair point,” I conceded, allowing myself a small smile. “But what about the business side? I've never done payroll or inventory management.”

“Hence the training period. I didn't emerge from the womb knowing how to run a bookstore, Leo.” Her dry tone made me chuckle despite myself. “You'll shadow me for the first month, then gradually take over specific areas. By six months, you should be handling most of the day-to-day operations.”

I turned to the next page in the folder, finding a tentative schedule that would allow me to finish my degree while working. “You've really thought this through.”

“Of course I have. I've been planning this since you reorganized my poetry section three years ago. Nobody who cares that much about proper shelving should be wasting their talents serving coffee.”

The timeline she'd mapped out was ambitious but thoughtfully constructed. Training through the summer, increasing responsibilities in the fall, with flexibility built in around my class schedule.

“What about finances?” I asked, the constant concern of my existence. “I need to be sure this can cover our expenses. The kids?—“

“Will be fine,” Eleanor interrupted gently. “I've budgeted for gradual raises as you take on more responsibility. And the hours are predictable, unlike your current patchwork. No more midnight maintenance shifts or double waitstaff duties on weekends.”

She slid another sheet toward me. “I've also spoken with Marjorie at the community college about their tuition assistance program for local small business employees. You could finish your degree with considerably less debt.”

I stared at the paper, calculations running through my head. With this arrangement, I could potentially drop at least two of my current jobs. The regular hours would mean being home more consistently for Diego and Sophie. The stability would ease the constant background anxiety about making rent and buying groceries.

“It seems too good to be true,” I admitted, the wariness of someone accustomed to life's harsh surprises.

Eleanor sipped her tea before responding. “It's a business decision, not charity. This store has grown beyond what I can manage alone, and hiring someone I trust, who knows books and our customers, is simply good sense.” She set down her cup. “That it helps you is a pleasant bonus.”

We discussed practical matters but her perceptive questions gradually shifted focus to my obvious distraction.

“You've seen him,” she stated rather than asked, recognition born from decades watching Riverton's human connections form and dissolve.

“In the library. Last night. During my shift.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I said hello, apologized for interrupting, and left.” I stared into my tea. “It was awkward. Uncomfortable. Exactly what you'd expect after ten years.”

“Is that all it was?”

The question cut through pretense. “It shouldn't matter after ten years,” I said, frustration directed at myself rather than Ethan. “We were teenagers. It was impossible then and it's irrelevant now.”

Eleanor's response carried the wisdom of someone who had witnessed decades of human patterns. “Some connections leave imprints that time doesn't erase, just reshapes.”

Before I could respond, the store's bell announced a new customer. Through the office doorway, I glimpsed a familiar figure browsing the new arrivals display. It was Ethan, and he was clearly unaware of my presence until Eleanor called out a greeting that made him look up.

Our eyes met across the shop, mutual surprise registering before either could mask it.

“I need to check that shipment,” Eleanor announced to no one in particular, disappearing through the back door with suspicious haste.

Ethan approached slowly, as though giving me time to flee if I chose. “I didn't expect to see you here,” he said, stopping a careful distance away.

“I could say the same,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “Though I guess it makes sense. You always loved this place.”

“Still do.” He gestured vaguely at the shelves surrounding us. “Some things don't change.”

The awkwardness hung thick between us. But gradually, inevitably, it yielded to tentative conversation.

“Sophie's very enthusiastic about your class,” I offered.

His face brightened. “She's a remarkable student. Insightful, creative. Her alternative ending to Romeo and Juliet was brilliant.”

“She mentioned that. Very proud of the feedback.”

“You should be proud of all of them,” he said, sincerity evident in his voice. “They're exceptional kids.”

The compliment landed somewhere tender, penetrating defenses I hadn't realized needed guarding. “They are.”

I found myself studying him more carefully than the library's shock had permitted. I noted the confidence he carried now, the ease in his own skin that had been only partially formed in adolescence.

“I should get back to shelving,” Eleanor announced, returning with suspicious timing. “But it's nearly closing time anyway. Perhaps you two would like to catch up? The café next door has excellent coffee.”

My instinct was to refuse, to retreat to safer emotional territory, but something stopped me. Curiosity, perhaps, or the simple exhaustion of avoidance.

“I have an hour before my next job,” I heard myself say.

Ethan nodded. “Coffee sounds good.”

Ten minutes later, we sat across from each other at a corner table in Riverton's only independent café, steam rising from mugs between us.

“The students seem engaged,” Ethan said breaking the silence, fingers tapping lightly on his mug. “Different from Seattle. More straightforward somehow.”

I nodded, watching steam rise from my cup. “Riverton kids tend to say what they think. Sometimes too directly.”

“I find it refreshing after university seminars where everyone speaks in carefully constructed paragraphs.” His smile appeared genuine but guarded. “Though I'm still adjusting to teaching six periods a day instead of three classes a week.”

“Must be exhausting,” I offered, surprising myself with how easily we fell into the familiar cadence of conversation, despite everything between us.

“It is, but in a good way.” He glanced around the diner.

“How long have you been back?” I asked, stirring sugar into coffee I'd normally drink black.

“Just over two weeks.” He wrapped both hands around his mug as if seeking warmth. “Started teaching immediately. Still staying with Marcus until I find an apartment.”

“Marcus,” I repeated, the name creating another connection point in our complicated web. “He never mentioned you were coming back.”

“I asked him not to,” Ethan admitted. “I wanted... I don't know what I wanted. Time to adjust, I guess. To figure out how to approach...” He gestured vaguely between us.

“And did you? Figure it out?”

“Clearly not,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Though in my defense, I thought I'd have more time before we ran into each other.”

A ghost of familiar humor surfaced between us, momentarily easing the tension. Ethan had always been able to laugh at himself, a quality I'd found endearing in a world where I took everything too seriously.

“Sophie and Diego complicated that plan,” I acknowledged.

“They did. I'm sorry about that. I wasn't trying to insert myself into their lives.”

“I know.” And strangely, I did know. Whatever complicated emotions Ethan's return stirred, I didn't question his intentions. “Diego mentioned you helped him.”

“I happened to be walking by,” he explained. “Couldn't just keep going. He's a remarkable kid. Reminds me of you at that age.”

The conversation shifted into more personal territory as he asked about my siblings. What started as brief updates gradually deepened, my customary guardedness giving way to stories I rarely shared. I found myself describing Mari's late-night study sessions at the kitchen table, her determination to maintain her 4.0 GPA despite working part-time at the local grocery store. I told him about her applications to state universities and the private scholarship interviews she'd aced, how she researched financial aid options.

“She's always been the organized one,” I admitted. “Even when everything was falling apart, Mari would still have her homework done two days early.”

Ethan nodded, his expression softening. “And Diego?”

“Diego's... complicated,” I said finally. “Brilliant with numbers, can solve complex equations in his head, but struggles with reading comprehension. The school wanted to label him as having behavioral issues until we got him properly tested for learning differences.” I found myself explaining the battles with the district, the IEP meetings, the hours spent advocating for appropriate accommodations. “His math teacher thinks he could qualify for advanced placement next year if his supports remain consistent.”

Ethan's attentiveness encouraged further disclosure. I shared stories of Sophie's recent art show at the elementary school, how her watercolors captured emotional landscapes beyond her years. “She processes everything through art,” I explained. “When she's upset or confused, she paints instead of talking. Sometimes I think it's her way of preserving memories of our mother from before—“ I stopped, suddenly aware of how much I was revealing.

But instead of discomfort, I felt Ethan's genuine interest as he asked about Sophie's preferred techniques, her favorite subjects. I described her fascination with color theory, how she'd saved birthday money for professional-grade watercolors rather than toys, the way her art teacher had created a special lunchtime studio session just for her.

“She has our mother's gift,” I said quietly. “Before the drugs. Mom used to illustrate children's books, did freelance work for local publishers. She was incredible.” The past tense hung between us, acknowledging without explanation what had become of that talent.

Ethan listened with genuine interest that gradually evolved into something like admiration. “You did it,” he said simply. “You kept them together, gave them stability.”

The acknowledgment created an unexpected tightness in my throat. “Had to,” I managed. “No other acceptable option.”

“That doesn't make it less remarkable.”

As our coffee grew cold, conversation approached but carefully avoided our most significant territory. Instead, we established tentative parameters for our current interaction.

“I've thought about you often, wondered if—“ Ethan started to say but I interrupted with gentle but firm redirection.

“We were different people then,” I said, the protective instinct that had governed my life for a decade asserting itself. “Better to focus on now.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary without pushing. As we prepared to leave, our goodbye carried the weight of everything discussed and everything deliberately avoided.

“I'll see you around, Leo,” he said, the simple phrase carrying layers of meaning neither of us was ready to unpack.

“See you around,” I echoed, stepping into the fading afternoon light with the strange sensation of having crossed some invisible threshold.

That evening, I sat at our living room helping Sophie with her English homework, her enthusiasm for the assignment complicated by my new awareness of her teacher's identity.

“Mr. Webb says we need to identify the narrative perspective and explain how it affects our understanding of the character,” she read from her assignment sheet, brow furrowed in concentration.

“First-person narration means we only know what the narrator knows,” I explained, keeping my voice casual despite the storm of emotions Ethan's name still triggered. “It limits our perspective but creates intimacy with that character.”

“That's what Mr. Webb said!” Sophie looked impressed with my literary knowledge. “He also said unreliable narrators are the most interesting because they force us to question everything. He's really good at explaining stuff. Not boring like most teachers. He treats us like we're smart enough to understand complicated ideas.”

Before I could formulate a response, Mari entered, immediately sensing the tension in my expression. “Hey Soph, can you help Diego with the dishes? I need to talk to Leo about college application stuff.”

Sophie groaned but complied, gathering her homework and heading toward the kitchen. Once she was out of earshot, Mari turned to me with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.

“College application stuff? Really?”

“Thanks for the save,” I admitted.

“So what's going on?” Mari asked. “You've been weird since dinner Sunday, and just now you looked like someone walked over your grave when Sophie mentioned her teacher.”

“It's about Ethan,” I said finally. “I didn't expect him to be back in Riverton, let alone teaching Sophie.”

Mari nodded, unsurprised. “I always wondered what happened between you two. One day he was just gone.”

The question caught me off guard. We didn't discuss my past relationships—hadn't discussed any relationships, really, given how few I'd attempted since becoming her guardian.

“It was impossible timing,” I explained after a moment. “I had just gotten custody of you three. There wasn't room for anything else.”

This condensed explanation captured the decade-old choice without conveying its emotional devastation, protective instinct still shielding family from full understanding of sacrifices made.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Mari asked.

“Briefly. Today, actually.” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “It was... civil. Strange. I don't know what I expected.”

Mari studied me with unusual intensity. “That was then,” she said finally. “We're not the same desperate situation now.”

“It's been ten years,” I countered. “People change. Move on.”

“Some things don't,” she said with quiet confidence. “Not if they mattered enough.”