Page 14 of The Silence Between

“We'd start with fifteen hours weekly, bumping up to twenty-five once your training's done,” Eleanor explained, sliding the job contract across her messy desk at Second Chapter Bookstore. Papers, coffee mugs, and at least three half-read books fought for space around her ancient computer. “The schedule works around your night janitor gig, and eventually you could ditch those diner hours completely.”

I skimmed through the document, feeling this stupid little bubble of hope that I tried to squash down real quick. This wasn't just another paycheck; it was a first step toward doing something I actually wanted instead of just whatever kept the electricity on. After ten years of “will this cover rent?” being my only career question, the change was awesome and terrifying all at once.

“The healthcare kicks in after ninety days?” I tried to sound casual while my brain was doing cartwheels shouting “DENTAL PLAN! DENTAL PLAN!” like I was in some sitcom.

“Yes. Basic coverage, but includes dental for dependents.” Eleanor always knew exactly what buttons to push with me. “And of course, forty percent employee discount on books starts day one.”

I signed that contract faster than Diego agrees to pizza. This management gig wasn't just about money; it was about possibilities. Learning from Eleanor, actual career development, maybe reconnecting with books and all that literature stuff that got shoved in a mental closet when life went sideways.

“We'll start your training next week,” Eleanor continued, shoving the contract in a folder with my name scrawled on it. “Inventory management first, then ordering systems, event planning, and eventually community partnerships.”

“Community partnerships?” My bullshit detector started pinging loud.

“Mmm.” She nodded with that look in her eye that meant I was about to get railroaded into something. “I've been thinking about working more with the high school English department. Author visits, student writing workshops, book displays tied to what they're reading. Ethan's already shown interest.”

And there it was. Working with Ethan meant regular meetings, planning sessions, actual conversations. Exactly the kind of sustained interaction I'd been doing Olympic-level avoidance to prevent.

Eleanor watched my mental freakout with those knowing eyes. “If you're serious about building actual career experience in book-related fields, this creates resume-worthy projects, Leo. The kind that colleges actually care about when looking at applications from people who didn't go the traditional route.”

The dilemma hit me like a runaway shopping cart. Moving forward career-wise meant dealing with exactly the emotional complications I'd been dodging. Getting ahead required reconsidering my carefully maintained “Ethan-free zones.”

“I can work with him professionally,” I said finally. Already a huge step up from my previous “duck behind the nearest shelf if Ethan enters the store” approach.

“Good.” Eleanor gathered the papers, her face neutral but her eyes saying plenty. “Working together has a way of showing whether those boundaries still make any sense.”

Her comment landed like a direct hit. Was I still avoiding him because I needed to, or just because I was stuck in a habit? Wasn't ready to poke at that question too much.

“We'll see,” I said, not committing to anything.

Eleanor's lips curved into that smile that always made me feel like I was a book she'd already read the ending to. “Training manual's by the register. Take it home, read through it before next week.”

I nodded, tucking the fat binder under my arm as I stood to leave. “Thanks, Eleanor. For everything.”

“You've earned this, Leo. Don't overthink it.”

But overthinking was practically my superpower. I'd been the family overthinking champion since I was sixteen and suddenly responsible for three kids. As I walked the twelve blocks to my next appointment, that binder seemed to get heavier with each step, like it was filled with bricks instead of paper. The bookstore job. Maybe working with Ethan. The college application. Each step forward felt like crossing a frozen lake while carrying a space heater.

By the time I reached the social services building, my mood had sunk low enough to match its depressing gray concrete vibe. No matter what progress I made elsewhere, these walls always yanked me back to reality, reminding me I was still at the mercy of a system that could decide my family's fate on a whim.

The social services building hadn't changed in ten years. Same plastic chairs clearly designed by someone who hated human butts. Same flickering lights that made everyone look like they had some kind of disease. Same fake clean smell trying to cover up the scent of government despair. I sat across from Corinne Sharp's desk, maintaining my practiced “totally responsible adult who definitely has his shit together” posture.

At thirty-two, Corinne had been our caseworker since I first fought for custody. She wasn't exactly an enemy or a friend, but something weird in between. A decent person trying to do good while trapped in a broken system with too many rules and not enough actual help.

“Mari's college applications are moving along,” I reported, answering her usual questions about how the kids were doing. “Diego's school is finally using those learning accommodations we talked about last time, and Sophie's doing great, especially in English and art.”

Corinne nodded, scribbling in our file. “And financial stability?”

“I just accepted a management job at Second Chapter Bookstore on top of my other gigs. Hours are more regular, and it comes with healthcare after ninety days.”

“That's excellent progress, Leo.” She looked up from her notes. “And housing's stable? Utilities paid up?”

“Yes to both. Same apartment for four years now. No issues with rent or bills.”

The familiar dance continued. Me proving I was a decent guardian, her checking boxes on forms. I'd learned how to handle these talks carefully, not showing too many problems that might set off alarms, but not painting such a perfect picture that she'd think I was lying either.

“There is one concern I wanted to discuss,” Corinne said, her voice changing slightly. “We've received information suggesting potential contact between your siblings and your father.”

My stomach dropped like I'd just hit the first big hill on a rollercoaster. “What kind of contact?”

“Apparently Miguel approached Diego outside his school last week. There was also a report of him waiting near Sophie's art class.”

“That's impossible,” I said immediately. “I would know if...”

But even as I said it, doubt crept in. Diego had been weirdly quiet lately, answering questions about his day with caveman grunts. And Sophie had been dropping hints about wanting fancy art supplies our budget couldn't stretch to cover, but that might have mysteriously appeared if someone was trying to buy her affection.

“The contact happened without you knowing?” Corinne asked, her face neutral but her pen hovering over the file like a vulture waiting for something to die.

“If it happened at all,” I clarified, recovering quickly. “My father was in the hospital recently for another overdose. He's in no shape to be hanging around schools.”

“That's exactly the concern.” Corinne's voice stayed professional, but her eyes showed actual worry. “Miguel checking himself out against medical advice, combined with his continued drug use and homeless situation, goes against all the visitation rules set up in your custody agreement.”

“I know the rules. I've followed them for ten years.”

“I know you have, Leo. I'm not saying otherwise.” She put down her pen. “But I need to stress the custody implications if these secret meetings continue, especially with his recent relapse. As their guardian, you need to keep those boundaries in place.”

“I understand.” The words came automatically while inside I was having a five-alarm panic attack. Another threat to my family, this one from a direction I wasn't expecting. “I'll talk to Diego and Sophie right away.”

“One more thing.” Corinne checked her calendar. “We have your custody review scheduled for next month, right when Mari turns twenty-one. Standard procedure to evaluate custody arrangements when family situations change.”

This routine update hit me like a sucker punch. A custody review right when Mari was turning twenty-one. Fantastic timing, universe. Really outdoing yourself.

“Is that really necessary?”

“It's standard procedure,” Corinne repeated, though her tone suggested she knew it was bureaucratic bullshit. “Just a formal check-in to make sure things are still stable for Diego and Sophie.”

I nodded, keeping my face blank while my brain calculated threat levels. The timing couldn't be worse. Miguel showing up again, Mari hitting official adulthood, me changing jobs, all happening exactly when the system decided to put us under the microscope.

As I left the building and stepped into the gray afternoon light, I felt like the weight of the world was crushing down on me. The custody arrangement that had kept my siblings together for ten years suddenly seemed as fragile as a house of cards in a tornado.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number. I almost ignored it, not in the mood to deal with another bill collector, but something made me answer.

“Hello?” I balanced the training binder on my knee as I fumbled with the phone.

“Leo? It's Ethan.”

I almost dropped the binder. “Ethan? How did you get my number?”

“Eleanor gave it to me,” he said, sounding a little hesitant. “Hope that's okay. She mentioned you'd be working on some bookstore projects, and I wanted to touch base about potential school collaborations.”

Of course she did. Eleanor and her “community partnerships” moving at light speed.

“Right now's not great,” I said, glancing back at the social services building looming behind me.

“Everything okay? You sound stressed.”

I almost laughed. Stressed didn't begin to cover it. “Just leaving a meeting. Family stuff.”

“Anything I can help with?” The genuine concern in his voice caught me off guard.

“Not unless you know how to make the foster care system less of a nightmare,” I said before I could stop myself.

A pause. “Not my area of expertise, unfortunately. But if you need someone to talk to about it...”

“I'm good,” I said quickly, regretting the moment of vulnerability. “But thanks.”

“Okay.” He didn't push, which I appreciated. “Actually, I was wondering if you might come by my classroom sometime today? I've been working on this poetry unit with the juniors that I think would tie in perfectly with what Eleanor was mentioning about the bookstore collaboration.”

“Your classroom?” I repeated, like I'd never heard of the concept before.

“Yeah, maybe during fifth period? The students are preparing presentations on contemporary poets, and I thought it might be good for them to hear about how a real bookstore decides which poetry collections to stock.” He paused. “Plus, I could use another adult perspective on their work. Sometimes I think they take me less seriously since I'm the new teacher.”

I should have said no. Coming to his classroom meant voluntarily entering his territory, seeing him in his element. It was the opposite of avoidance.

“Yeah, okay,” I heard myself say. “I could stop by. I know nothing about contemporary poetry though.”

“That's actually perfect,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Most bookstore customers don't either. It'll help them think about audience.”

I stared at my phone for a good minute after hanging up with Ethan. Did I really just agree to go to his classroom? Today? For his fifth period poetry class? My brain was still spinning from the social services bombshell about my father, and now I'd volunteered to talk to a bunch of teenagers about how bookstores choose poetry collections. Clearly, I'd lost my mind somewhere between Eleanor's office and Corinne's desk.

With nowhere else to go and a few hours to kill before fifth period, I found myself at Riverton Diner, nursing the world's most mediocre coffee while flipping through Eleanor's training binder. I couldn't focus on inventory systems or ordering procedures, though. My thoughts kept drifting to what Ethan had said on the phone.

The idea that Ethan, needed my perspective on anything literary was almost laughable. But there was something in his voice that sounded genuine, even a little uncertain. The great literary success wasn't quite as confident in the classroom as I would have expected.

By the time I had to leave, I'd downed three cups of coffee, read exactly six pages of the training manual, and nearly talked myself out of going five different times. But I'd promised, and if there's one thing I've learned from ten years of being responsible for three kids, it's that you don't break promises unless someone's bleeding or the car breaks down.

The high school looked exactly the same as when I'd been a student, except now I could enter through the front doors without feeling like I was walking into prison. The secretary gave me a visitor badge with minimal suspicion and pointed me toward Ethan's classroom.

Standing outside Room 237, I heard the muffled sound of teenagers talking over each other, that particular energy that happens right before a teacher calls a class to order. I took a deep breath and walked in.

The classroom looked weirdly different as an adult visitor. Less horror movie hallway, more motivational poster explosion. Students were clustered in small groups, some looking at notebooks, others chatting about definitely not poetry. Ethan was at his desk, arranging what looked like handouts, but he looked up immediately when I entered.

“Leo, you made it,” he said, genuine relief in his voice as he stood to greet me. The students glanced over, their teenage radar instantly detecting something interesting might be happening.

“Said I would, didn't I?” I replied, suddenly aware of twenty-something pairs of teenage eyes evaluating me, probably wondering who this random guy in work boots was and why their teacher seemed actually happy to see him.

“Class, this is Mr. Reyes from Second Chapter Bookstore,” Ethan announced, switching to teacher mode. “As I mentioned, he's going to give us some insight into how bookstores select poetry collections and maybe offer some feedback on your presentation ideas.”

A girl in the front row raised her hand immediately. “Are you Sophie's brother? The one who fixes stuff?”

And just like that, I was labeled. Not Leo Reyes, professional bookstore manager-in-training, but Sophie's brother who carries a toolbox. Riverton in a nutshell.

“That would be me,” I confirmed, and saw a few nods of recognition around the room. Small towns, man. Everyone knows you, or at least knows of you.

“Mr. Reyes has agreed to talk with us about the practical side of poetry in bookstores,” Ethan continued smoothly. “As you're preparing your presentations on contemporary poets, think about the bridge between what we study academically and what actually makes it onto bookstore shelves.”

For the next forty-five minutes, I found myself talking more about poetry than I had in the last decade combined. The students, once they got past their initial skepticism of this random maintenance guy suddenly talking about book sales, actually asked decent questions. Which poets sell best? How do bookstores decide what to stock? Do people actually buy poetry or just look at it and put it back?

I answered as honestly as I could, occasionally catching Ethan's eye as he nodded encouragingly from where he'd taken a seat at the side of the room. He was letting me run the show, which was both terrifying and strangely empowering.

When the students broke into groups to work on their presentations, Ethan pulled a chair up next to me.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said quietly. “They respond differently to someone from outside the classroom, especially someone with practical experience.”

“Not sure how practical my experience is,” I admitted. “Eleanor handles most of the poetry ordering.”

“But you understand what makes people actually pick up a book,” he pointed out. “That's something I can't teach from academic theory.”

We spent the rest of the period moving between student groups, listening to their ideas for presentations on poets I'd mostly never heard of. Ethan would handle the literary analysis while I'd chime in about accessibility, readability, what might make someone browsing actually stop and open the book.

Our back-and-forth developed a natural rhythm. His academic knowledge complemented my practical bookstore perspective, his literary analysis balanced with my understanding of how to make books appeal to people who didn't grow up with bookshelves at home.

As the class ended and students filed out, a few of them actually thanked me for coming, which felt weird but nice. One lanky kid who reminded me a lot of Diego lingered, asking about whether I thought there could ever be a market for poetry about video games. I talked with him for a few minutes about finding your audience and writing what you're passionate about, surprising myself with how much I apparently cared about this topic.

Once the room cleared, Ethan and I found ourselves alone. He'd arranged two student desks facing each other with books and notebooks stacked between them.

“I thought we could talk more about the bookstore-school partnership if you have time,” he said, his tone carefully professional. We were both still figuring out how to navigate this new territory, trying to exist in the same zip code without either avoiding each other or accidentally reopening old wounds.

“Eleanor's pretty persuasive about this whole collaboration,” I replied, dropping into one of the desks that was way too small for adult butts. “The bookstore-school thing makes good business sense.”

“I put together some ideas for the student writing showcase,” Ethan said, flipping open a folder. “I was thinking we could mix kids from different grades, grouped by themes instead of by class.”

“Themes would work better for the store displays,” I agreed, pulling out my own scribbled notes. “We could spread them throughout the store instead of just one corner, put student stuff next to published books on the same topics.”

Our conversation flowed easier than I expected. When talking about how to make the showcase work for parents with jobs, I found myself sharing stories about the ridiculous hoops I'd jumped through trying to attend Mari's school events while juggling work and making sure the younger kids were covered.

“We could schedule several short readings across different days and times,” Ethan suggested, actually taking my concerns seriously. “Maybe piggyback on other events already happening at the community center, where people already have rides and childcare figured out.”

After an hour, we had a solid plan hammered out. Timeline, budget, how we'd pick the student work, how we'd set up the displays. The meeting had been surprisingly productive, our shared goal of getting kids excited about writing creating this neutral ground where our complicated past seemed less important.

As we gathered our stuff, Ethan casually dropped, “Diego's been speaking up more in class this week. Whatever you said after our homework session must have boosted his confidence.”

The comment reminded me that Ethan was forming his own relationships with my siblings, completely separate from whatever weirdness existed between us.

“Thanks for working with him,” I said carefully, trying to walk the line between appreciating his help and not encouraging too much family involvement. “The one-on-one attention makes a difference.”

“I'm impressed with how Diego tackles math problems,” Ethan said, shuffling his teaching papers. “He sees connections other kids miss, thinks in patterns that aren't obvious to most people.”

I nodded, feeling that rush of pride that always hits when someone sees my siblings' strengths instead of just our struggles. “He's always been like that. Building crazy-complex Lego structures as a little kid, figuring out patterns before he could even explain them.”

“That kind of natural understanding is rare,” Ethan observed. “Sophie has it with her art too. Different stuff, same gift for seeing what others don't.”

I shifted in the tiny desk, not sure how to handle these observations about my family. Compliments always made me feel weirdly exposed, like someone had accidentally walked in on me in the bathroom.

“They're smart kids,” I said simply, gathering my notes. “Just needed someone to notice.”

“You did more than notice,” Ethan replied, his tone matter-of-fact rather than all mushy. “You made space for their talents to grow despite all the other crap going on. That's good teaching.”

The comparison to his own job caught me off guard. I'd never thought of what I did as teaching, just surviving. The new perspective felt weird but kind of validating.

We awkwardly shook hands at the classroom door in a way that somehow felt both super formal and weirdly intimate at the same time. As I headed out to my afternoon handyman gig, I couldn't shake the unsettled feeling of how naturally the whole thing had gone, how easily our minds still clicked despite a decade apart.

* * *

The empty school corridors at 1:30 AM were like something from a horror movie, every sound amplified to creepy levels. The squeak of my mop bucket, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the occasional bang of the heating system all echoed through the halls. I'd been mopping on autopilot for hours, my mind spinning with worries about Miguel showing up and the upcoming custody review, when the sound of heels clicking on tile snapped me back to reality.

Tasha appeared around the corner, still in her hospital scrubs, looking like she was on a mission.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, immediately worried. Tasha visiting during my night shift wasn't a social call. “Is it Zoe? Your mom?”

“Everyone's fine,” she assured me quickly. “But I needed to catch you before you got home, away from little ears.”

She glanced around the empty hallway, lowering her voice like we were in a spy movie. “Miguel showed up at the hospital again tonight, making a scene in the ER waiting room. When security removed him, he was ranting about seeing 'his kids' and how 'no court could stop him.'”

My stomach clenched. “He's been approaching them at school. Did you know?”

The surprise in her eyes answered before she did. “No, but it fits with what I'm hearing. He's been asking around town for their schedules, claiming sobriety and rehabilitation, saying the system separated him from his children unfairly.”

“He surrendered custody voluntarily,” I said through clenched teeth. “After multiple CPS interventions and failed rehab attempts.”

“I know. But he's spinning a different story now.” Tasha's expression hardened. “What you need to know is that he's not sober. Not even close. He checked himself out AMA last time, refused follow-up care, and based on what I observed tonight, he's still using regularly.”

This perfectly matched what Corinne had been asking about earlier. Miguel was trying to reconnect with the kids, and he was still using. Perfect combo for a custody nightmare.

“There's more,” Tasha continued reluctantly. “I saw him talking with James Townsend in the hospital cafeteria yesterday.”

Townsend. The School Board president who was always going on about “traditional family values” and was rumored to be pushing for privatizing social services to prioritize reuniting kids with biological parents regardless of whether that was a good idea.

“You're sure it was Townsend?”

She nodded. “Positive. They were speaking intensely about something. When they saw me watching, they separated immediately.”

Great. Not just a personal problem, but potentially a political one too. Miguel might have found himself an ally with actual power.

“The custody review is next month,” I said, the words tasting bitter. “Coinciding exactly with Mari turning twenty-one.”

“Shit.” Tasha's blunt assessment summed it up perfectly. “That's not good timing.”

“No.” I leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling like I'd been awake for a week straight. “It's like everything's converging at once. Miguel, the review, Mari's transition, the job change. And Ethan's return on top of everything else.”

“Ethan?” Tasha raised an eyebrow. “I thought you two were avoiding each other.”

“Trying to. Failing spectacularly.” I ran a hand over my face. “We've agreed to stop pretending coincidental encounters aren't inevitable. We're even collaborating on a bookstore project.”

“That's...progress?”

“I don't know what it is.” The admission felt like giving up. “Just one more complication when I'm already juggling too many.”

Tasha squeezed my arm, her expression softening. “I'll keep eyes and ears open at the hospital, let you know if I hear anything else about Miguel or Townsend. And Leo? Don't try to handle everything alone. That's what got you into trouble last time.”

She left with a promise to call with any updates, her footsteps echoing down the corridor until the school fell silent again. I stood frozen under the harsh fluorescent lighting, my mop forgotten as the full impact of everything hit me at once.