Page 12 of The Silence Between

12

DEFENSIVE MANEUVERS

LEO

M y cramped bedroom desk became mission control, with three color-coded calendars and a stack of work schedules spread out like I was planning a bank heist instead of just trying to dodge one guy. The apartment was dead quiet, everyone else still enjoying sleep like normal people while I sat hunched over my master plan: Operation Avoid Ethan Webb At All Costs.

I scribbled English department meetings in red. Mapped out Ethan's probable classroom hours in blue, based on stuff Sophie mentioned and conversations I'd overheard while mopping hallways. Yellow highlighted the danger zones, places where we might accidentally bump into each other: main office, parking lot, that one hallway where everyone ends up between classes.

Then I got down to the real tactical business. Switch janitorial hours to clean the English wing after 1 AM, when even the most dedicated literary types would be home in bed. Move Mrs. Hernandez's never-ending plumbing saga to Tuesdays. Ask Mari to handle Sophie's pickup on days when Ethan taught late. A guy could avoid his past if he planned carefully enough.

My eyes drifted to Thursday on the calendar, circled twice in black. Community college notification day. The envelope sat on my desk, unopened. Fourth try's the charm, right? Or maybe just another disappointment to add to the collection.

My thumb rubbed absently over the semicolon tattoo on my wrist. My personal reminder: story not over yet, even when it feels like it should be.

This wasn't just me being dramatic. It was practical. The family machine was finally running without breaking down every other day.

Mari was leaving for college soon, which scared the hell out of me but would free up some space to maybe finally take those night classes. Diego was failing English but killing it in math, which might actually get him somewhere. Sophie's art was getting seriously good with real lessons.

All of it hanging by a thread that seemed to fray whenever Ethan appeared with his perfect hair and published novels and life that went according to plan. Each time I saw him I'd spend days distracted, imagining impossible what-ifs instead of focusing on the next bill, the next shift, the next problem to solve.

“Building a fallout shelter for the Ethan-pocalypse?”

I jumped at Mari's voice. She’s always been good at sneaking around.

“Just organizing work stuff,” I mumbled, shuffling papers around like that would hide their obvious purpose.

Mari gave me that look, the one she'd perfected around age twelve that said bullshit detector activated. She picked up my work calendar with all its arrows and cross-outs.

“You literally changed your entire schedule at both jobs,” she said, dropping the paper back on my desk. “Including your lunch break at the diner to when absolutely no teachers would be there. You can't just rearrange your whole existence because he moved back.”

“I'm not?—“

“Save it.” She perched on the edge of my bed, arms crossed. “We've done this dance before. What's really going on?”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair that needed a cut I couldn't afford. “It's not that complicated. I see him, I get distracted, I mess up at work, we can't pay rent. Simple cause and effect.”

“Try again,” Mari said, not buying it for a second.

“Fine. Every time I run into him, I start thinking about roads not taken. About choices I didn't get to make. About what my life might look like if I hadn't been trying to keep three kids fed and housed since I was eighteen.” I gestured at the cramped room, the secondhand furniture, the life built from necessity rather than choice. “He comes back with his fancy degree and award-winning books while I'm still scrubbing toilets and fixing leaky pipes.”

“And?” Mari prompted, arms still firmly crossed.

“And nothing. That's it. It's distracting, and I can't afford distractions. End of story.”

Mari's face softened. “You know we're not in crisis mode anymore, right? We're stable enough now that you could actually have something for yourself.”

“Stable is a strong word for four people living in a two-bedroom apartment with three and a half jobs between us and a car that makes that noise.”

“That's just regular life, Leo. Not a state of emergency.” Mari reached over and flicked my calendar. “This isn't healthy.”

“Neither is reopening old wounds that don't change anything,” I countered.

“So your solution is to become a nocturnal janitor who never crosses paths with the English department? Realistic.”

Before I could come up with a decent comeback, Sophie's voice called from the hallway, asking about breakfast and whether her blue sweater was clean. The conversation paused, but the truth of Mari's words lingered in the air, stubborn as the water stain on my ceiling that no amount of paint would ever quite cover.

For two days, my elaborate avoidance strategy worked pretty well. I'd managed to clean the English department well after midnight, fixed the library's broken shelf during the faculty meeting, and even traded shifts with Rick to avoid the afternoon when parent-teacher conferences brought all the teachers into the hallways.

But on Wednesday afternoon, my carefully constructed house of cards collapsed when Principal Rodriguez caught me in the maintenance office.

“Leo, just the man I need,” she said, dropping a set of keys on my desk that was really just an old door on cinder blocks. “The pipes in the faculty lounge finally gave out. Water everywhere. I need someone to handle it ASAP before it gets into the electrical.”

I glanced at the clock: 3:40 PM. Peak danger zone. English department meeting would have just ended, and teachers would be scattered throughout the building. Including one specific teacher I'd been successfully avoiding.

“Can't Rick take it? I'm scheduled to?—“

“Rick's out sick, and the rest of the maintenance crew is at the middle school dealing with their heating system.” She gave me the look that made even the toughest seniors straighten up. “It's all hands on deck, Leo.”

Arguing with Rodriguez was pointless. I grabbed my toolbox, feeling like a soldier being ordered over the top of a trench.

“It's contained to the faculty lounge for now, but it's spreading fast,” she called after me as I headed down the hall. “Hurry!”

I jogged through the maze of hallways, toolbox banging against my leg with every step. The faculty lounge was in the administrative wing, tucked between the guidance counselors' offices and the staff bathrooms—well away from my carefully planned routes. As I rounded the corner, I could already see water seeping under the door and into the hallway.

Great. Not just a small leak but a full-blown disaster. I pushed open the door to find an inch of water covering the linoleum floor, spreading slowly toward the electrical outlets. And standing in the middle of the room, pants rolled up to his knees and frantically trying to move books and papers to higher ground, was Ethan.

Of course. Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

He looked up when the door opened, relief washing over his face when he saw my toolbox.

“Thank god,” he said, pushing his hair off his forehead with a wet hand. “I was about to start building an ark.”

“Where's it coming from?” I asked, keeping my tone professional as I waded into the mess.

“Under the sink, I think.” He pointed to the small kitchenette area where water was gushing steadily from beneath the cabinet. “I tried to find the shut-off valve, but...”

“It's behind the refrigerator,” I said, already moving that way. “Can you help me pull this out?”

Together we dragged the ancient refrigerator away from the wall, revealing the water shut-off valve. I cranked it closed, and the immediate crisis eased as the flow of water stopped. Then I got down on my knees, flashlight in hand, to inspect the damage under the sink.

“Looks like the old copper pipe finally corroded through,” I said, examining the jagged hole that had opened up. “Been warning facilities about these pipes for years.”

“Is it fixable?” Ethan asked, hovering nearby with a stack of soggy papers in his hands.

“Yeah, but not quickly. Need to replace this whole section.” I sat back on my heels, mentally calculating what supplies I'd need. “Got to drain what's left in the line, cut out the bad section, and solder in a replacement.”

“How long will that take?”

“Couple hours, minimum.” I glanced around at the standing water. “But first we need to get this water cleaned up before it causes more damage.”

“I'll help,” Ethan offered, setting down his water-logged papers. “Just tell me what to do.”

Despite my best efforts to maintain professional distance, we fell into an efficient rhythm. I showed him how to use the wet-vac while I started disassembling the damaged pipe section. The faculty lounge slowly emptied of other teachers, leaving just the two of us working in a strangely comfortable silence broken only by the hum of the vacuum and occasional instructions.

“I heard you applied to community college,” Ethan said finally.

I felt my shoulders tense. “News travels fast around here.”

“Eleanor mentioned it when I stopped by the diner yesterday.” He kept his tone casual, but I could hear the genuine interest behind it. “What are you thinking of studying?”

“Business administration,” I said, turning my attention back to the pipe. “Practical. Useful for the bookstore position Eleanor's offering.”

“Not literature?” The question carried no judgment, just curiosity.

“Don't have time to read for fun and for class,” I said, which was partially true. The whole truth was more complicated—literature reminds me too much of you, of us reading poetry on that old railroad bridge, of dreams I had to set aside. “Business makes more sense for where I am now.”

“That's great, Leo. Really.” His voice held genuine admiration that bridged some of the distance between us. “Starting is what matters.”

I nodded, uncomfortably aware of how his praise still affected me after all these years.

“I should check if maintenance has the replacement pipe in stock,” I said, standing up and wiping my hands on my work pants. “Keep vacuuming around the edges where most of the water pooled.”

As I walked to the door, trying to reestablish some distance, Ethan's voice stopped me.

“Leo?”

I turned, waiting.

“It's good to see you,” he said simply. “Even if it takes a plumbing disaster.”

I didn't know how to respond to the honesty in his voice, so I just nodded and stepped into the hallway, trying to ignore the way my heart was beating a little too fast in my chest.

* * *

Volunteering at the food pantry had been my regular commitment at St. Mary's Community Center for years, a mutually beneficial arrangement where I contributed time in exchange for occasional emergency assistance during hard times. The center stood in the neutral territory between East and West Riverton, providing resources that helped bridge the town's economic divide. More importantly, it offered me refuge from the constant pressure of responsibility, a place where giving rather than managing replenished something essential in my spirit.

Sister Margaret, the elderly nun who'd been a constant ally through custody battles and housing crises, sorted canned goods beside me with the focused determination of someone who'd spent eighty years in service to others.

“Mari's college applications progressing?” she asked, her arthritic hands deftly organizing soup cans by expiration date.

“She’s got the scholarship to the college she wanted and we are still ironing out the details.” I confirmed.

“And the younger ones? Diego and Sophie?”

“Sophie's thriving in school. Diego's... getting the support he needs.”

She nodded, familiar with the long struggle to get proper educational accommodations for Diego's learning differences. “And you? Eleanor mentioned you might take some community college classes yourself.”

“If I get accepted. And if I can make the schedule work.”

“Good. It's about time.”

Her simple approval meant more than she could know—validation from someone who'd witnessed our hardest moments without judgment, who understood the magnitude of stability we'd achieved against overwhelming odds.

“Heard Ethan is back in town,” she mentioned casually, though her sideways glance was anything but casual. “Teaching at the high school.”

News traveled with supernatural speed through Riverton's interconnected community networks. I shouldn't have been surprised she knew, yet somehow I was.

“Yeah. Teaching Sophie, as it happens.”

“And how are you managing that particular blast from the past?”

Sister Margaret's question created space for honesty impossible in other contexts—the community center itself a kind of confessional where pretenses served little purpose.

“Avoiding him as much as possible,” I admitted. “Not very successfully.”

“And why is that your strategy?”

I placed cans on the shelf with more force than necessary. “Because seeing him makes me question decisions that can't be changed.”

“Such as?”

“Pointless hypotheticals. I made my choice. Revisiting it doesn't change anything.”

Sister Margaret's weathered hands paused their work. “Acknowledging roads not taken doesn't diminish the value of the one you chose, Leo.”

The sound of the door opening cut through our conversation, followed by a familiar voice talking to someone in the hallway. I froze, soup can suspended midair, as Ethan backed into the pantry, arms full of a cardboard box.

“Just let me drop these off and I'll be right with you,” he was saying to someone outside. He turned, spotted Sister Margaret first, and smiled. “Got those books you wanted for the literacy program.”

Then his eyes found mine, and his smile flickered just for a second before settling back in place. No dramatic reaction, just a brief moment of surprise before adapting to yet another unexpected encounter.

“Leo. Hey,” he said simply, setting the box on a table. The casual greeting somehow felt more natural than any carefully constructed formality.

Sister Margaret looked between us with poorly disguised interest. “Perfect timing, Ethan. I need to check on the after-school program. Why don't you help Leo finish with these cans?”

Before either of us could object, she was shuffling toward the door with surprising speed for someone pushing eighty. “Won't take but a minute with two sets of hands,” she called over her shoulder before disappearing.

Subtle as a heart attack, that woman.

“She's not even trying to be sneaky anymore,” I muttered, returning to shelving cans.

Ethan laughed softly, picking up a can of beans. “Reminds me of Mrs. Henderson from the library senior year. Remember how she'd always find reasons to seat us at the same study table?”

I did remember. The old librarian had been our unwitting accomplice, creating opportunities for us to “accidentally” end up together without raising suspicions.

“So... you're volunteering here now?” I asked, keeping my focus on organizing the shelves.

“Teaching a writing workshop for the after-school program on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” He started helping with the sorting without being asked, falling into the rhythm like we'd done this together before. “You've been coming here a while?”

“Since I first got custody of the kids. Sister Margaret helped navigate the legal process, connected us with resources when things were tight.” I sorted canned vegetables with practiced movements. “The center was a lifeline when we needed it most.”

Ethan nodded, continuing to help with the sorting. “She's an incredible woman. Reminds me a bit of Eleanor.”

“Cut from the same cloth,” I agreed. “Strong-willed women who get things done while everyone else is still talking about doing them.”

We worked in surprisingly comfortable silence for several minutes, the simple task creating a buffer that made interaction less fraught than in other contexts. But the realization that avoidance was becoming increasingly impossible settled heavily as I watched him integrate himself into yet another sphere of my carefully compartmentalized life.

“You're everywhere,” I said finally, the observation escaping before I could reconsider.

He looked up, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Small town. Hard to avoid people even when you're trying.”

“I know.” And I did know. His actions weren't deliberate incursions into my space, just natural movement through a community too small for complete separation. “It's just...”

“Complicated,” he finished when I didn't.

“Yeah.”

The simple acknowledgment hovered between us—recognition that circumstance rather than choice continued to thrust us into each other's orbits, that avoidance strategies were becoming increasingly futile against Riverton's interconnected geography.

“I should get these books sorted before heading out,” Ethan said, breaking the silence. “The after-school kids are waiting.”

“Yeah, I need to finish up here too.” I gestured vaguely at the remaining cans. “Places to be, toilets to unclog.”

He smiled at that, a real smile that hit me harder than it should have. “The glamorous life of a multi-jobbed man.”

“Living the dream,” I deadpanned, and for just a second, it felt almost normal between us.

As he left with a casual wave, I found myself staring at the door longer than necessary, wondering if this bizarre game of Riverton roulette would ever get easier.

* * *

When I dragged myself up the stairs to our apartment after a brutal shift fixing the Henderson's ancient plumbing, muscles aching and clothes still damp from the pipes that had decided to give me an impromptu shower. All I wanted was a hot shower, a cold beer, and maybe five minutes of peace before starting dinner.

Instead, I unlocked the door and froze at the sound of laughter coming from inside. Not just any laughter—Sophie's high-pitched giggle mixed with a deeper voice that made my stomach drop. I pushed the door open to a scene that stopped me dead.

Ethan was sitting at our kitchen table, geometry textbook open beside a stack of papers, Sophie and Diego on either side of him. Notebooks, calculators, and half-empty glasses of water scattered across the surface. The smell of something cooking filled the apartment—definitely not the mac and cheese I'd planned.

“Leo!” Sophie looked up, her face lighting up. “Mr. Webb is helping with our homework. Did you know he's actually good at math even though he teaches English?”

“I did,” I managed, setting down my toolbox, trying to process why Ethan was casually hanging out in my kitchen like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I had a question about our poetry assignment,” Sophie explained, words tumbling out fast. “And Mr. Webb said he was in the neighborhood, so he offered to stop by. Then Diego got stuck on his geometry proof, and Mr. Webb showed him this cool trick...”

“And you invited him for dinner,” I finished, eyeing the pot simmering on the stove.

“I hope that's okay,” Ethan said, looking genuinely uncomfortable. “I told Sophie I should check with you first, but...”

“But I said you wouldn't mind,” Sophie finished, completely oblivious to the complicated history between her brother and her teacher.

I set down my keys, feeling Diego watching us both with that weird sixth sense he'd developed for adult tension. The kid missed nothing.

“Of course it's fine,” I lied, years of keeping my problems away from my siblings making the words come automatically. “What's cooking?”

“Pasta with actual vegetables,” Diego said, sounding surprised by this concept. “Mr. Webb said frozen pizza doesn't count as a food group.”

“Traitor,” I muttered at Ethan, but without real heat. “I'll go clean up and help finish dinner.”

Fifteen minutes later, showered and slightly less grumpy, I found myself chopping bell peppers while Ethan stirred the sauce. The kids had retreated to finish homework before eating, leaving us awkwardly alone in the tiny kitchen.

“So...” I started, focusing on the pepper. “This is new.”

“Sophie's persistent,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

I ignored that. “You didn't have to cook.”

“Consider it payment for invading your space without warning.” He tasted the sauce, then added more oregano. “Besides, I like cooking. Marcus and his family have been great, but their spare room isn't exactly set up for culinary experiments.”

“How is that working out?” I asked, sliding the peppers into the pot.

“It's temporary,” he said, stirring the peppers in. “Marcus offered while I look for a place of my own. Their kids are... energetic.”

“That's one way to put it,” I said, remembering Marcus's three boys who seemed to function on perpetual sugar highs. “I fixed their bathroom sink last month. One of them had flushed an entire action figure collection.”

Ethan laughed. “Sounds about right. The youngest tried to convince me that midnight is an appropriate bedtime for a six-year-old.”

“Bold negotiation strategy.”

“He's got a future in politics.” Ethan adjusted the heat on the stove. “Honestly, it's nice being around a family, even with the chaos. Better than some sterile apartment by myself.”

Something about the way he said it made me look up. There was a loneliness there I hadn't expected.

“The high school hasn't changed much,” he said, changing the subject. “Same trophy case, same faded banners.”

“Same uncomfortable chairs in the English classrooms?”

“Absolutely.” He smiled. “I'm pretty sure I found gum under my desk that we put there senior year.”

That got a laugh out of me. “So your illustrious return to Riverton includes teaching in the same room where Mr. Phillips tried to make us care about Hawthorne?”

“Room 237. And yes.” He shook his head. “Though I'd like to think I'm slightly more engaging than Phillips.”

“Low bar,” I said, remembering the monotone teacher who could make even the most exciting literature sound like a weather report.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Ethan rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “How's Sophie liking my class, really?”

“She actually loves it. Keeps talking about some poetry project you assigned.” I finished chopping the last of the vegetables. “She's always been the reader in the family.”

“Like her brother,” Ethan said quietly.

I felt something tighten in my chest at that. “That was a long time ago.”

Before he could respond, Sophie and Diego burst back in, arguing about whose turn it was to set the table, and the moment passed.

The pasta was good—way better than the boxed stuff I would have made. As we ate, the conversation flowed with surprising ease, mostly centered around school and Sophie's upcoming art project.

“Mr. Webb says my watercolor technique is really advanced for my age,” Sophie announced proudly. “He thinks I should enter the district art show next month.”

“You definitely should,” I agreed, watching her face light up. “Your landscapes are amazing.”

“They remind me of your mom's work,” Ethan said, then glanced at me like he wasn't sure if he should have mentioned her.

Instead of the usual sting, I felt something warmer. “Yeah, they do. She'd be proud.”

“Are you working on anything new?” Diego asked Ethan, genuinely curious. The kid who barely spoke three words to most adults was suddenly chatty.

Ethan hesitated. “Actually, I'm taking a break from fiction at the moment. Focusing on teaching.”

“But you're still writing, right?” Sophie pressed. “Leo says real writers always write, even when nobody's paying them.”

I nearly choked on my pasta. “When did I say that?”

“When I asked why you still have all those notebooks even though you work like a million jobs,” she replied matter-of-factly.

Ethan raised an eyebrow at me. “Notebooks?”

“Just work stuff,” I muttered, suddenly very interested in my pasta. “Invoices, measurements, that kind of thing.”

Sophie rolled her eyes dramatically. “He writes poetry when he thinks we're sleeping. I've seen him.”

“Sophie!” I felt heat creeping up my neck.

“What? It's not a secret,” she said, completely unrepentant. “You're always scratching in that black notebook at like midnight.”

Ethan was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. “I didn't know you still wrote.”

“I don't,” I said firmly. “Just... notes and stuff. Nothing real.”

He nodded, but the look he gave me said he didn't believe that for a second.

After dinner, when Sophie went to her room to finish homework and Diego disappeared into the bathroom for his nightly hour-long shower, I found myself alone with Ethan as we cleared the table.

“You didn't have to cook,” I said, scraping plates into the trash. “Or help with their homework.”

“I know.” He stacked dishes by the sink. “But Diego really was struggling with those proofs, and I actually enjoy cooking. Seemed like a win-win.”

I ran water in the sink, avoiding his eyes. “Well, thanks. It was good.”

“High praise from Leo Reyes.” His voice had that teasing tone I remembered too well.

“Don't get used to it.” I handed him a wet plate to dry. “This isn't going to be a regular thing.”

“What isn't? Me showing up uninvited or you admitting my cooking's decent?”

Despite myself, I cracked a smile. “Both.”

We washed dishes in companionable silence for a minute before he spoke again.

“They're great kids, Leo.”

The simple sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. “I had help. Eleanor, Sister Margaret. Half the town, really.”

“Still.” He placed a dried plate in the cabinet. “Most people your age would have crumbled under that kind of responsibility. You didn't.”

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “Didn't have much choice.”

“That's not true, and you know it.” His voice was quiet but firm. “There were always choices. Harder ones, sure, but they existed. You chose this. Them.”

I didn't know how to respond to that. He was right, but hearing him say it so plainly made my throat tight.

“Anyway,” he said, changing the subject, “I should probably head out. Let you guys have your night.”

“Yeah, Sophie has her show on at eight. Big dramatic production if she misses it.”

He dried his hands on a dish towel, looking around the small kitchen like he was committing it to memory. “Thanks for not throwing me out when you got home.”

“You're lucky I was too tired to manage it,” I said, but there was no edge to it.

When I walked him to the door, there was an awkward moment where neither of us seemed to know the right way to say goodbye. We weren't friends, exactly, but we weren't strangers either. We were something undefined, suspended between our past and whatever this new reality was becoming.

“See you around,” he said finally, with a small smile that felt like a peace offering.

“Yeah,” I replied, finding I actually meant it. “See you around.”

After he left, I stood at the door longer than necessary, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. The apartment felt different somehow, like his brief presence had shifted something fundamental that I couldn't quite name.

At 2:30 AM, I gave up on sleep and found myself walking to the old railroad bridge, or what was left of it anyway. Tonight, after finding Ethan casually hanging out in our house like it was the most natural thing in the world, my brain refused to shut down.

I sat on the edge of the concrete, feet swinging above the dark water, absently running my fingers over the layers of graffiti. There were the usual suspects: badly drawn anatomical parts, declarations of undying teenage love, and various initials surrounded by plus signs and hearts. Tucked in one corner, almost washed away by years of rain, was our own contribution: E.W. + L.R., carved with his Swiss Army knife during one of those rare perfect nights when anything seemed possible.

I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, I saw a familiar shape walking toward me through the darkness, like my reminiscing had somehow summoned him from thin air.

Ethan stopped short when he noticed me, clearly as surprised by my presence as I was by his. “Leo?”

“Couldn't sleep either?” I asked, too tired to act surprised or come up with some excuse to leave.

“Too many thoughts.” He approached slowly, like he was giving me time to escape if I wanted. “Mind if I join you?”

I shrugged and scooted over a bit on the concrete ledge. He sat down, leaving enough space between us that we weren't touching. We both stared at the water instead of looking at each other.

“I used to think about this place a lot while I was in Seattle,” he said after a while. “Even after... you know. Something about this spot stuck with me.”

“It's the only place in Riverton that isn't clearly East or West,” I pointed out. “Neutral territory.”

We fell quiet for a few minutes, just listening to the water below and occasional cars passing in the distance.

“This whole avoiding each other thing isn't working out great,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

“Not in a town this size,” he agreed. “I turn around and there you are.”

“And there you are in my kitchen, helping Diego with math,” I added, not quite keeping the accusation out of my voice.

He glanced at me. “Should I have just walked away when he asked for help?”

“No,” I admitted. “That wouldn't be fair to him.”

“So where does that leave us?”

I picked at a loose piece of concrete. “I don't know. I didn't exactly plan for you to suddenly reappear in Riverton after ten years.”

“I didn't exactly plan it either,” he said. “The teaching position just came up at the right time.”

“Right time for what?”

He took a deep breath. “For a change. Seattle wasn't what I thought it would be anymore.”

“The successful author getting bored with city life?” I couldn't help the edge in my voice.

“The guy who realized he was writing about life instead of living it,” he corrected, not rising to the bait. “Big difference.”

That silenced me for a moment. I'd built up such a specific image of his perfect literary career that this vulnerability didn't fit.

“Look,” he said, turning to face me. “We're going to keep running into each other. My students talk about the cool librarian who helps them with research. Eleanor mentions you every time I stop by the bookstore. Your siblings apparently think I'm still decent at explaining algebra. We can't keep pretending we're strangers.”

“So what's your suggestion? Become best friends?” The sarcasm was a reflex, a defense mechanism.

“I was thinking more like... regular people who can have a normal conversation when they happen to be in the same place,” he said. “No more diving behind the cereal display at Miller's Grocery.”

I felt my face heat up. “You saw that?”

“Everyone saw that, Leo. You knocked over the Cheerios display.”

Despite myself, I laughed. “Fine. No more hiding behind cereal boxes.”

“That's a start,” he said, a smile in his voice.

The idea of not constantly being on high alert for Ethan sightings was actually appealing. The energy I'd been putting into avoidance strategies could definitely be better used elsewhere.

“I can handle civil,” I offered. “But I'm not promising heart-to-hearts about the past.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “One awkward middle-of-the-night conversation at a time.”

As we sat there watching the river flow beneath us, I realized this was the first real conversation we'd had in a decade that didn't feel like we were reading from a script. Maybe there was something to be said for giving up the elaborate avoidance tactics after all.