Page 17 of The Silence Between

16

MOONLIGHT CONFESSIONS

ETHAN

I parked beneath a flickering streetlight that seemed to be having a seizure every three seconds, scanning the worn apartment building with its rusted fire escapes zigzagging up the facade like a drunken game of connect-the-dots. On the third floor, a solitary figure sat motionless in the shadows. My heart did that weird little skip thing it always did when I spotted Leo, even after ten years apart. Some part of my brain would apparently always have a “Leo detector” installed.

The metal stairs groaned under my weight with all the subtlety of a foghorn, announcing my arrival to the entire neighborhood and probably several neighboring towns. Each step felt both metaphorical and painfully literal, especially when I stubbed my toe on step fourteen. When I finally reached his landing, Leo didn't stand or speak, just shifted slightly to make room on the narrow platform that generously could be called a balcony.

“Thanks for coming,” he said finally, his voice low to avoid carrying through the apartment walls behind us, which looked about as soundproof as wet tissue paper. “I wasn't sure you would.”

“You asked.” I settled beside him, our shoulders almost touching in the limited space. “That's enough.”

He looked terrible, but in that unfairly attractive way some people manage when they're exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His hair stood in tufts where he'd clearly been running his hands through it.

A half-empty mug sat beside him, smelling faintly of whiskey. Not the cheap stuff either. Apparently, some luxuries were worth the splurge, even on a tight budget.

“The kids okay?” I asked, nodding toward the dark window.

“Physically, yes. Emotionally...” He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Diego's shaken up. He's never seen Miguel like that. And Sophie's been having nightmares again.”

The casual use of their father's first name spoke volumes. Not Dad, not Father, but Miguel. Like referring to a problematic neighbor rather than a parent.

“And Mari?”

“Handling it like she handles everything. Too well. Taking care of everyone else while pretending she doesn't need taking care of herself.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Wonder where she learned that.”

I wanted to reach for him but kept my hands in my lap. This fragile truce between us felt too important to mess up with an unwelcome shoulder pat that might send him scurrying back into his emotional fortress.

“And you? How are you holding up?”

“I'm...” he started with his standard “fine” response before stopping himself. “Actually, I'm not sure. It's one thing to handle a crisis in the moment. It's another to process what it means for tomorrow, and next week, and the custody review.”

“Your instincts were impressive,” I said. “The way you kept calm, protected everyone.”

“You being there made a difference,” he said, studying my face in the dim light from a distant streetlamp. “Thank you for that.”

“Anytime,” I replied softly. “I mean that.”

Silence settled between us, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken meaning. Something had definitely shifted in our careful arrangement of professional distance. My presence here, his invitation to enter private space, created context outside the boundaries we'd previously established. We were officially in uncharted territory now.

“I got accepted to community college,” he said abruptly, the change of subject so sudden I blinked in surprise. “Evening studies program. Business administration. Got the letter today.”

“Leo, that's fantastic.” My genuine pride in his achievement warmed my voice. “You're going to accept, right?”

He laughed without humor. “Terrible timing. Right before a custody review? Adding evening classes to three jobs and family responsibilities? They'd use it as evidence I'm spreading myself too thin.”

“Or as evidence you're creating stability through education and career development.” I shifted to face him more directly. “Your siblings are older now. The circumstances aren't what they were when you first took custody.”

“Still four people in a two-bedroom apartment. Still juggling work schedules around childcare. Still one crisis away from collapse.” He picked up his mug, staring into it as if it might contain answers rather than alcohol. “And now Miguel's back, making noise about parental rights he surrendered years ago.”

“Do you think he genuinely wants reconnection with the kids?”

“I think he wants what addicts often want—to feel better about themselves without doing the actual work recovery requires.” The assessment came without bitterness, just weary recognition of patterns repeated too many times to count. “Claiming he's being kept from his children is easier than acknowledging why supervision is necessary.”

A car alarm blared briefly in the distance, then fell silent. Somewhere down the block, voices raised in drunken argument. The night sounds of East Riverton provided constant reminder of the precarious environment from which Leo had worked so hard to protect his siblings. The neighborhood's soundtrack was decidedly different from the West Riverton ambient playlist of sprinklers and distant tennis games.

“What will you do?” I asked finally.

“What I always do. Whatever necessary to keep them safe, together, and moving forward.” He sighed, setting down his mug. “But honestly? I'm tired, Ethan. So fucking tired.”

The admission carried weight beyond physical exhaustion. Ten years of constant vigilance, perpetual responsibility, continuous navigation of systems designed for traditional families while maintaining stability through sheer force of will. The toll was evident in the slump of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes, the careful way he held himself as if afraid relaxing might mean collapse.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” I asked quietly.

He glanced at me, startled by the question. “That's not how this works.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“I don't have that luxury.”

“It's not a luxury to need support, Leo. It's human.”

His gaze dropped to his hands, silence stretching between us. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to a near whisper.

“Sometimes I wonder who I might have been if things had been different. If I'd gone to college at eighteen like I was supposed to. If I'd had the chance to figure out who I am outside of being responsible for everyone else.”

The confession cracked something open between us, something raw and real beyond practical concerns or necessary cooperation. For the first time since our reconnection, he was speaking from the heart rather than from his carefully constructed responsible guardian script.

“You'd still be you,” I said softly. “Still fierce and protective and stubborn. Still the person who puts others first. Still the boy who could quote Frost from memory and argue literary symbolism until three in the morning.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

The admission slipped out before I could think better of it, honesty breaking through my careful “just colleagues now” facade. Leo's eyes met mine, something shifting in their depths.

“I thought I was the only one who did that,” he said. “Remembered everything.”

The distance between us on the narrow balcony suddenly felt both vast and tiny, years of separation condensed into inches of physical space neither of us quite dared to bridge.

“Do you ever regret it?” I asked, the question that had haunted me for a decade finally finding voice. “The choice you made? Us ending when it did?”

He looked away, attention caught by the distant glow of West Riverton across the river, lights reflecting off water that had always divided our worlds like some heavy-handed literary symbolism.

“It wasn't a choice,” he said finally. “It was the only possible response to impossible circumstances. They needed me. All of me. There wasn't room for anything else.”

“And now?”

The question hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us had directly acknowledged. Leo's fingers traced the semicolon on his wrist, the gesture seemingly unconscious.

“Now is complicated in different ways.” He looked back at me, his expression a complicated mix of wariness and something that might have been hope. “The kids are older, but the stakes are higher.”

“You don't have to face it alone.”

“I've been alone for ten years.”

“You're not alone now.”

The simple statement landed between us with weight beyond its brevity. Leo's eyes searched mine for long moments, looking for something I desperately hoped he would find.

“I don't know what that means,” he said finally. “I don't know what any of this means.”

“It means whatever we need it to mean,” I offered. “No pressure. No expectations. Just... not alone.”

The faintest lightening of the sky announced approaching dawn, night's protection slowly yielding to day's reality. Soon his siblings would wake. The home inspection would loom. Life's demands would reclaim him.

“I should let you get some rest,” I said, making no move to leave. “The inspection's going to be stressful enough without sleep deprivation.”

“Stay.” The word surprised both of us, Leo looking momentarily startled by his own suggestion. “Just... a little longer.”

We sat in comfortable silence as night gradually surrendered to dawn, shoulders barely touching, neither pushing for definitions or commitments beyond this moment of shared vulnerability. At some point, Leo's head tilted toward my shoulder, exhaustion finally overwhelming his stubborn resistance.

I remained perfectly still, barely breathing, as he slept against me—the first time in ten years he'd allowed himself to be vulnerable in my presence. The weight of his trust settled over me like a blanket, more significant than any words we might have exchanged. I felt like I was holding a rare, endangered bird that might fly away at the slightest movement.

The rising sun painted the Riverton skyline in gold and amber, West and East briefly unified in shared illumination as another day began. I watched Leo's face in this gentler light, defenses temporarily abandoned in sleep, and made a silent promise to myself and to him.

This time, I wouldn't leave when things got hard. This time, I would stay.

* * *

Something small and cold pressed against my cheek, startling me awake. I blinked in confusion, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. The narrow balcony. Metal railing digging into my back in places I didn't know could hurt. Leo's jacket spread over me like a blanket. And Sophie standing before me, holding a mug of coffee and studying me with unabashed curiosity like I was an interesting zoo exhibit.

“Leo said you might still be here,” she announced matter-of-factly. “He had to make breakfast but said you should have coffee when you woke up.”

I accepted the mug, embarrassment flooding through me as I realized I'd fallen asleep on their balcony like some kind of literary hobo. “Thank you, Sophie. I didn't mean to stay all night.”

She shrugged, utterly unconcerned by my presence. “Leo says people need rest where they can find it. Want breakfast? We have eggs.”

The casual invitation, clearly approved by Leo given the coffee delivery, represented significant evolution from our previous careful separation. I stood, stretching cramped muscles that screamed in protest, and followed Sophie through the window into the apartment itself.

Leo stood at the stove, wearing yesterday's clothes and sporting impressive bedhead, but somehow still managing to look more put-together than I felt after sleeping sitting up against a metal railing. He glanced up as I entered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he returned to flipping pancakes.

“Morning,” he said, casual as if finding me asleep on his balcony were an everyday occurrence. “Hope you like omelettes.”

“I... yes. Thank you.” I hovered awkwardly, uncertain of my place in this domestic scene. “I should probably go, though. You have the inspection today, and I'm just in the way.”

“You're not in the way,” Mari said, appearing from what I assumed was the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel. “And Leo made enough pancakes to feed a small army, so you might as well help eat them.”

I caught the significant look that passed between Mari and Leo, some silent sibling communication I couldn't interpret but that clearly related to my unexpected presence. Diego emerged from a bedroom, eyes widening slightly at finding me in their kitchen but recovering quickly.

“Mr. Webb,” he greeted, sliding into a chair at the table. “Are you helping with the inspection stuff?”

“I... no. Just visiting,” I managed, taking the cup of coffee Sophie had delivered earlier and sipping to hide my discomfort. The coffee was good. Like, surprisingly good. Not the budget brand I'd expected.

“Eat before it gets cold,” Leo instructed, placing a stack of pancakes in the center of the table with the efficient movements of someone who had coordinated family meals for years. “Everyone has to be out by 9:30. Inspector comes at 10:00.”

The simple inclusion in their morning routine created disorienting sense of belonging I hadn't expected. I watched their interactions through breakfast, witnessing family dynamics invisible in our previous encounters.

Mari functioned as clear second-in-command, directing Diego to grab napkins while helping Sophie find her missing art project folder. Diego maintained typical teenage surliness but responded to Leo's quiet requests without argument. Sophie chattered about her art class, occasionally directing questions to me about books she'd been reading for my class.

And Leo orchestrated it all, ensuring everyone had what they needed while reviewing their schedules for the day, reminding Mari about a financial aid deadline, confirming Diego's therapy appointment time, double-checking that Sophie had her permission slip for tomorrow's field trip.

It was beautiful and a little heartbreaking. As we finished eating, Leo caught my eye across the table, something vulnerable and questioning in his expression.

“We should talk about next steps for the Townsend situation later,” he said, the practical focus creating framework for continued connection while maintaining emotional safety through external focus.

“Whenever you're ready,” I agreed, understanding the unspoken boundaries.

As I prepared to leave, Sophie unexpectedly hugged me, her small arms wrapping around my waist with unguarded affection I hadn't earned but desperately wanted to deserve.

“Thanks for helping with Dad yesterday,” she said simply. “Leo was scared even though he pretended not to be.”

The observation, piercing in its childlike directness, created complicated tangle of emotions I couldn't immediately process. Leo quickly redirected her toward gathering her backpack, but the moment lingered between us as I headed toward the door.

“Thank you,” I said quietly when we had a moment alone in the narrow entryway. “For the coffee. The pancakes. For letting me stay.”

“Thank you for being here,” he replied, the simple acknowledgment carrying weight beyond practical assistance.

I left with the strange sensation of crossing a threshold I hadn't realized existed—not just physical entrance into Leo's home but invitation into the heart of what mattered most to him. As I walked toward my car in the morning sunlight, I felt lighter than I had in months, maybe years. Like I'd shed some weight I didn't know I was carrying.

* * *

The faculty lounge buzzed with morning conversation as I gathered allies to address Townsend's increasingly transparent targeting of non-traditional families. Marcus arrived with coffee for everyone, his expression shifting from surprise to understanding when he noticed my unchanged clothes from yesterday.

“Rough night?” he asked quietly, handing me a cup.

“Eventful,” I corrected, accepting the caffeine gratefully. “Miguel showed up at Leo's apartment. Created a scene. I happened to be there to help defuse it.”

His eyebrows rose, but he didn't press for details about why I “happened” to be at Leo's apartment, instead focusing on practical response. “That explains Townsend's smug attitude this morning. He clearly thinks he's building a case.”

We gathered in a small conference room with carefully selected allies—Ms. Rivera from science who had been quietly supporting Diego; Principal Rodriguez, whose discomfort with Townsend's involvement in disciplinary matters suggested potential alliance; and the school's guidance counselor, Ms. Wilson, who had been advocating for proper accommodations for Diego's learning differences.

“Thank you all for coming,” I began, distributing folders I'd prepared overnight before Leo's unexpected text. “I've asked you here because I'm concerned about a pattern I'm seeing regarding James Townsend's unusual interest in custody arrangements for certain families in our district.”

Rodriguez frowned. “What kind of pattern?”

“Specifically, non-traditional family structures being targeted for accelerated reviews when the biological parents express interest in reunification, regardless of the circumstances that led to the original custody arrangements.” I laid out documents showing the unusual timing of Leo's custody review, Miguel's sudden reappearance with legal-sounding but ultimately unenforceable documents, and Townsend's presence at disciplinary meetings outside his normal jurisdiction.

“This isn't just about the Reyes family,” I continued, careful to frame this as systemic concern rather than personal interest. “According to district records, this pattern has emerged in at least three other cases in the past year—all families where guardianship is held by someone other than biological parents, all experiencing sudden interest from previously uninvolved relatives, all facing accelerated reviews without the usual documentation justifying such acceleration.”

Ms. Wilson nodded slowly. “I've noticed increased pressure regarding these families. Unusually detailed inquiries about home conditions, requests for academic and behavioral documentation beyond standard reporting requirements.”

“The question,” I said, “is what we can do within our professional boundaries to ensure fair treatment for these families while maintaining appropriate separation between school assessment and custody matters that should properly remain in legal channels.”

For the next hour, we developed a coordinated response strategy—documenting procedural irregularities in review accelerations, identifying policies potentially violated by Townsend's targeted approach, establishing clear boundaries between educational assessment and custody considerations.

As the meeting concluded, with concrete action items assigned to each participant, Marcus pulled me aside in the hallway.

“You're fully invested now, aren't you?” he asked quietly.

The question caught me off guard with its directness. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Ethan. This isn't just professional concern or abstract principle. You're all in on Leo and his family. I've known you too long not to recognize when you're fighting for something personal.”

I considered denying it, maintaining the fiction of professional distance, but exhaustion and the lingering vulnerability of last night's conversation stripped away my usual caution.

“Yeah,” I admitted, the acknowledgment both terrifying and liberating. “I guess I am.”

“Just be careful,” he advised, his expression concerned rather than judgmental. “Their situation is complicated. Professional advocacy is one thing. Emotional investment is another.”

“I know.” I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly aware I hadn't showered or changed clothes. I probably smelled like a combination of night air, pancakes, and questionable life choices. “But I think it might be too late for careful.”

Marcus studied me for a long moment. “You never really got over him, did you? Even after all these years.”

The question struck deeper than he could know, piercing through careful compartmentalization to the truth I'd barely acknowledged to myself.

“I don't think it's about getting over him,” I said finally. “I think it's about recognizing that some connections don't break just because circumstances force them apart.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, for what it's worth, I think you're good for them. All of them. Just make sure you're taking care of yourself too.”

As he walked away, I stood alone in the empty hallway, processing the evolution of emotions I'd been carefully managing since my return to Riverton. What had begun as curiosity about unresolved questions had developed into genuine concern for Leo's welfare, then protective instinct toward his family, and now something I wasn't quite ready to name but that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

I was fully invested now, as Marcus had observed. The question remaining was whether Leo could ever allow himself the vulnerability that genuine partnership would require, or whether the walls constructed through years of self-reliant survival had become too integral to his identity to ever truly come down.

The memory of his head against my shoulder, trust demonstrated through momentary surrender to exhaustion, suggested possibility beyond careful distance. But a single night of vulnerability didn't erase a decade of independence or resolve the practical challenges still facing his family.

All I knew for certain was that whatever happened next, I would be there.