Page 21 of The Silence Between

19

CAUTIOUS HOPE

LEO

T he community college enrollment form stared up at me from the admissions office desk like it was judging my handwriting skills. Blank spaces waited for me to commit something to paper beyond grocery lists and work schedules. Two evening Business Administration courses. Six credit hours. A toe dipped back into the life I'd surrendered when I became my siblings' guardian a decade ago.

“Just sign at the bottom, Mr. Reyes,” the admissions counselor said, sliding a pen across the desk. “Classes start next month.”

My hand hovered over the signature line, a moment of vertigo washing over me. This wasn't just paperwork. This was the first step toward something I'd buried so deep I'd almost forgotten it existed, the version of myself that had once dreamed of college, of a degree, of a life defined by more than just surviving on ramen and coffee.

“You'll be joining quite a few returning adult students,” the counselor continued, misreading my hesitation. “People with jobs, families. We structure these evening classes specifically for students with other responsibilities.”

I nodded, finally pressing pen to paper. My signature looked strange to me, used to signing permission slips and work timecards rather than claiming something for myself. It almost felt like I was forging someone else's signature.

“Once you're registered, we'll send information about the textbooks you'll need,” she said, taking the completed form. “Introduction to Business and Financial Accounting Basics, correct?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, the course titles alone creating a quiet thrill beneath my ribs. Accounting Basics—the words practically screamed party time.

“Excellent choices. Returning students often bring valuable life perspective to these practical courses.” She handed me a carbon copy of the registration along with a campus map. “Welcome to Riverton Community College, Mr. Reyes.”

As I left the building, the campus around me bustled with late summer activity, students lounging on patches of grass between buildings, staff preparing for the approaching fall semester, life continuing in its ordinary miracle. I checked my watch, calculating the hours before my shift at Second Chapter and when Mari would need the car to take Diego to practice. Always with the mental math, like my brain was a calculator that never turned off.

The scheduling tetris that had once seemed an insurmountable obstacle to education now represented a puzzle requiring solution rather than an absolute barrier. Night classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Mari was home. Study time during Sophie's art lessons. Textbook costs built into the budget through reduced coffee purchases and one less streaming service. Sorry, obscure cooking show marathon, education wins this round.

It could work. It would work. After ten years of putting everyone else first, I was claiming these few hours a week for myself. Not at their expense, but alongside their needs. The idea still felt radical, dangerous even, that I could want something beyond mere survival without being selfish. Like treating myself to dessert when I'd been living on vegetables for a decade.

One step at a time. That had gotten us through a decade of impossible challenges. It would get me through this, too.

* * *

“A little higher on the left,” I directed, watching Diego adjust the banner spanning the front windows of Second Chapter Bookstore. “Perfect. Now secure that corner.”

The afternoon sun filtered through the glass, casting warm rectangles across the hardwood floors where Sophie arranged program booklets on a display table. Her original artwork decorated the cover, swirling designs incorporating book spines and pencils, each one hand colored in vibrant blues and greens. Kid had talent that made my stick figures look like they were drawn by an actual stick.

“The refreshment table looks amazing, Mari,” I called toward the back of the store, where my sister was arranging a spread that somehow looked elegant despite our limited budget. “Eleanor will be impressed.”

Pride swelled in my chest as I surveyed the transformed space. The student writing showcase had started as a professional collaboration with Ethan, a way to connect the high school's creative writing program with the community, but had evolved into something more. Not just a bookstore event, but a bridge between worlds that had remained stubbornly separate in Riverton, like the two sides of town had been having a decade-long staring contest.

West Riverton students whose parents drove luxury SUVs would read alongside East Riverton kids who took the bus. Their work would be organized by theme rather than grade or achievement level. The refreshments would be served on mismatched plates that somehow looked deliberately eclectic rather than merely cheap.

“You're smiling,” Mari observed, appearing at my elbow with a stack of napkins. “It's a good look on you.”

“Just happy with how it's coming together,” I deflected, though the truth was more complicated. This event represented something I'd never allowed myself before, work connected to genuine passion rather than mere necessity. Managing the bookstore wasn't just another job to pay bills; it was the beginning of a career aligned with what I actually loved. Books. Words. Stories. Things that had kept me sane during the insanity of raising three kids before I could legally drink.

“Mr. Webb just pulled up,” Diego announced from his position near the window. The casual way he used Ethan's name still caught me off guard sometimes, the natural integration into our lives that had happened while I wasn't looking. Like he'd slipped through a side door when I was busy guarding the main entrance.

“I'll help him with the equipment,” Mari offered, heading for the door before I could respond.

I watched through the window as they met on the sidewalk, Ethan carrying a portable projector while Mari took a box of cords from his car. Their easy conversation, the way she laughed at something he said, created a strange ache in my chest. Not jealousy, but something adjacent to it, wonder at how quickly he'd earned her trust when she guarded it so carefully with everyone else. The man had superpowers, clearly.

When they entered the store, Ethan's eyes found mine immediately, a smile warming his features. “This looks incredible, Leo. Seriously.”

“Couldn't have done it without you,” I acknowledged, meaning more than just the event.

“Team effort,” he replied, understanding passing between us that extended beyond the professional collaboration.

For the next hour, we moved in practiced synchrony, making final preparations as students and families began arriving. I greeted parents at the door while Ethan helped nervous teenagers organize their readings. Sophie distributed programs with solemn dignity while Diego handled the audio setup with surprising technical skill. Kid was probably going to be running NASA by twenty.

“You've built something special here,” Eleanor said, appearing beside me as the store filled with people.

I followed her gaze to where my siblings moved confidently through the crowd.

“They built themselves,” I said, throat unexpectedly tight. “I just tried not to get in the way.”

Eleanor's knowing look saw right through me, like I was made of cellophane. “That's not how they tell it.”

Before I could respond, it was time to begin. I moved to the front of the store, suddenly aware of all the eyes turning toward me. Public speaking had never been my strength, too many years keeping my head down, avoiding attention that might bring scrutiny to our family situation. Nothing says “please don't notice me” like being a teenage guardian terrified of social services.

But as I stepped to the makeshift podium, something shifted inside me. Taking a deep breath, I looked out at the expectant faces.

“Welcome, everyone, to Second Chapter Bookstore's first Student Writing Showcase.” My voice came out steadier than I expected. “I'm Leo Reyes, the new manager here. When Eleanor Chen and I first discussed hosting community events, we wanted to create something that would bring people together through stories.”

I gestured to the displays around the room. “What you'll hear tonight isn't divided by grade levels or academic standings. These writings are organized by themes that connect us all – family, identity, belonging, change. Some of these young writers grew up in West Riverton, others in East. Some have parents who attended Ivy League universities, others have parents who never finished high school. But tonight, they're all just storytellers, sharing pieces of themselves through words.”

The faces looking back at me weren't intimidating anymore. They were just people, listening.

“In a town often defined by what divides us, these students found common ground in their English classes, in their love of language, in their courage to put thoughts on paper. I hope as you listen tonight, you'll hear not just what makes each voice unique, but what connects all of us across whatever boundaries we think separate us.”

I turned slightly, finding Ethan in the crowd. “And now, I'd like to introduce Mr. Ethan Webb, Riverton High's English teacher who made this showcase possible by believing in these students and their stories.”

Our gazes held for a moment longer than strictly necessary. The silent communication steadied me more than any words could have. I tried not to read too much into it. Really tried. Failed miserably.

The evening unfolded better than I could have imagined. Students who'd never had an audience beyond their classrooms shared stories and poems that left parents wiping away tears. Teenagers who rarely spoke to each other at school discovered common ground through written words. East and West Riverton mingled over punch and cookies, the invisible boundary temporarily dissolved by shared appreciation for their children's creativity.

And through it all, Ethan and I moved in orbit around each other, close enough to exchange glances across the room, far enough to maintain the careful boundaries we'd established. Professional partners. Friends. Something still evolving that neither of us had dared define. Like we were characters in our own Jane Austen novel, communicating through meaningful glances and the occasional brushing of hands while passing a stapler.

When the last family left and we began cleaning up, I felt lighter than I had in years. Not because the weight had disappeared, the custody review still loomed, bills still needed paying, responsibilities still waited, but because I'd found a way to carry it that didn't require surrendering everything that made me who I was.

“Good night?” Ethan asked quietly, joining me as I wiped down the refreshment table.

“The best,” I admitted. “Thank you for suggesting this.”

“Thank you for making it happen.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that made my chest tighten. “We make a good team.”

The simple observation contained layers I wasn't ready to unpack, not here, not with my siblings within earshot, not when I was still learning how to want things for myself without guilt. Like saying “the sky looks nice today” when what you mean is “I think I'm falling for you again.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, allowing myself to meet his gaze directly. “We do.”

The moment stretched between us, filled with everything we weren't saying, before Sophie's voice broke the spell. “Leo! Mrs. Abernathy wants to know if we can do this again next month!”

I turned toward my sister, back to the safety of practical matters and clear responsibilities. But the warmth of that unspoken connection lingered, an ember carefully banked but not extinguished.

* * *

“Have you decided on the meal plan?” I asked, watching Mari scroll through Northwestern housing options on her laptop. The kitchen table was covered with forms and brochures, the detritus of college preparation I'd never experienced myself. Paper chaos that somehow represented success.

“The mid level one, I think,” she said, clicking through options. “It's the best balance between cost and flexibility.”

The scholarship paperwork had come through yesterday, Northwestern's financial aid office finally processing Ethan's loan as the deposit that had secured Mari's place. The money was officially a loan between us, with repayment terms I'd insisted on despite his protests. My pride wouldn't accept charity, but my love for Mari had allowed me to accept help that made her dreams possible. My pride and practicality had been having arm-wrestling matches a lot lately, with practicality winning more often.

“That looks reasonable,” I agreed, studying the cost breakdown. “And you're sure about the double room? A single would give you more privacy.”

Mari glanced up from the screen, that knowing look in her eyes I'd never quite figured out how to defend against. “A double costs less and means I'll have someone to navigate campus with. Stop looking for problems to solve, Leo.”

“It's my job to think of everything,” I said automatically.

“No, it's your job to trust that you raised me well enough to handle college.” Her voice softened. “I'm going to be fine.”

I nodded, the familiar tightness in my throat whenever I thought about her leaving making it hard to speak. Pride and fear tangled together in my chest, pride in the remarkable young woman she'd become, fear of the hole her absence would leave in our carefully balanced family system. It was like removing a key support beam and hoping the whole house wouldn't collapse.

“It's not just about you,” I admitted finally. “It's about how we manage without you. The practical stuff, who picks up Sophie when I'm working late, how Diego gets to therapy when I have class.”

“We'll figure it out,” she said, echoing the phrase I'd repeated through a decade of impossible challenges. “Diego's old enough to take the bus now. Sophie can join the after school program on Tuesdays. Mrs. Hernandez already said she'd help with dinners on your class nights.”

I stared at her, surprised by how much she'd already planned. “You've thought this through.”

“Of course I have. I wasn't going to leave you hanging.” She closed her laptop, fixing me with that direct gaze that reminded me so much of our mother before addiction had hollowed her out. “But I'm more worried about you taking on too much. The bookstore job, your classes, the custody stuff... it's a lot, Leo.”

The role reversal felt disorienting, my little sister worrying about me rather than the other way around. Ten years ago, I never would have allowed this conversation, would have insisted everything was fine, maintained the fiction of invulnerability I'd thought they needed. Super Leo, able to handle multiple crises in a single bound.

“It is a lot,” I acknowledged, the admission still feeling dangerous even now. “But it's worth it. Your education, my classes, the bookstore. For the first time, we're building something beyond just surviving.”

Mari nodded, something softening in her expression. “And Ethan? Where does he fit in all this?”

The question caught me off guard, though it shouldn't have. Mari missed nothing, especially not the careful dance Ethan and I had been performing since my breaking point, present in each other's lives but maintaining certain boundaries, supportive without defined commitment, connected without clear labels. She'd probably been taking notes and building a relationship timeline.

“That's... complicated,” I managed.

“Is it?” she challenged gently. “Or are you making it complicated because you're scared?”

“Both,” I admitted after a long pause. “There's a lot at stake. The custody review. Your college transition. My new job. It's not just about what I want.”

“But what do you want?” she pressed. “Just you, Leo. Not as our guardian or provider or protector. You.”

The question hit like a physical blow, so simple and yet so impossible to answer after a decade of setting myself aside. What did I want? Beyond survival, beyond stability, beyond responsibility? I'd spent so long ignoring that question that I'd almost forgotten how to answer it.

“I want...” The words came slowly, unfamiliar in my mouth. “I want to see where things might go with him. But carefully. Slowly. With eyes wide open.”

It felt like confessing a crime, admitting to this desire that wasn't directly tied to my siblings' welfare. But Mari's face showed no judgment, only a gentle smile that made her look suddenly older than her twenty years.

“He sees you,” she said simply. “Not just what you do for everyone else, but you. Do you know how rare that is?”

I shook my head, uncomfortable with her perception but unable to deny its accuracy.

“You deserve someone who sees how extraordinary you are,” she continued, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Even if you're too stubborn to see it yourself.”

The validation from someone who knew me better than anyone, who had watched me at my strongest and my most broken, created a crack in the wall I'd built around certain hopes. Not demolishing it completely, but allowing light to filter through in a way I hadn't permitted before. Like finding a window in what I'd thought was a solid wall.

“One step at a time,” I said, the phrase that had carried us through a decade of impossible challenges.

Mari nodded, understanding what I wasn't saying. “That's all anyone can do.”

I squeezed her hand once more before standing up, stretching muscles tight from too many hours hunched over paperwork. My alarm would blare early tomorrow for my diner shift, and there were still lunches to pack and permission slips to sign before sleep could claim me.

Yet somehow, the endless to-do list felt slightly less overwhelming than it had a month ago. Not because the tasks had decreased, but because the weight of them had shifted. From crushing burden to manageable responsibility. From isolation to cautious connection. Like I'd been carrying a backpack full of bricks and someone had quietly replaced a few with foam replicas when I wasn't looking.

* * *

Sunlight struggled through the grimey windows of Damien's law office as I reviewed the documentation he'd prepared for our custody review. The legal language felt both foreign and familiar, technical terms I'd been forced to learn through years of system navigation woven through the story of our family.

“These statements from Diego and Sophie's teachers are particularly strong,” Damien said, tapping one section of the binder. “Their academic progress despite the disruptions with your father provides compelling evidence of stable home environment.”

I nodded, scanning the letters from educators who'd watched my siblings grow over years, Ms. Wilson documenting Diego's progress despite learning challenges, Sophie's art teacher describing her emotional resilience through creative expression.

“And we've addressed the housing concerns from the inspector?” I asked, flipping to that section.

“Completed repairs documented here,” the lawyer confirmed, “along with the letter from your landlord confirming lease renewal and the modest rent increase rather than the market rate jump he could have imposed.”

That rent negotiation had cost me pride but saved us several hundred dollars monthly, another example of learning to accept help without surrendering dignity. Eleanor's testimony as my employer, detailing my new management position and consistent advancement, provided income stability documentation that strengthened our case considerably. The manila folder was basically a paper version of my entire life, boiled down to official statements and form letters.

“The final piece is this affidavit regarding Miguel's supervised visitation violations,” Damien continued, his tone softening slightly. “I know this part is difficult, but documenting these incidents creates a protective record should he attempt to challenge your guardianship again.”

I nodded, throat tight as I reviewed the clinical description of my father's drunken appearance at our apartment building. The police report. Witness statements from neighbors. Evidence of a life derailed by addiction, laid out in black and white.

“He wasn't always like this,” I said quietly, the words escaping before I could stop them. “Before mom's accident, before the pills... he was a good father.”

Damien nodded, the judgment I'd feared absent from his expression. “That's why the tone throughout emphasizes his illness rather than moral failing. The goal isn't punishment but protection.”

I appreciated the distinction, though it did little to ease the familiar ache of what our family had lost, what might have been in another timeline where prescription opioids hadn't destroyed two parents and forced their teenage son to become father, mother, and brother to three children overnight. An alternate universe where I'd gotten to be just a regular kid instead of Family Manager.

“One more thing,” Damien said, pulling a business card from his desk drawer. “There's a family support group specifically for sibling guardians. They meet monthly at St. Mary's. Might be worth checking out.”

I took the card, surprised by the existence of such a targeted resource. “How did you find this?”

“Ethan asked me to look into support networks,” he said, watching my reaction carefully. “He thought you might be more receptive if the suggestion came from me rather than him.”

The revelation that Ethan had arranged this consultation without fanfare, had sought resources that might help us without making it about his involvement, created a warmth in my chest I couldn't immediately identify. Not gratitude exactly, though that was part of it. Something more complex about being seen, being known, being supported without being diminished. Like he'd managed to help without making me feel like I needed help.

“He's a good man,” Damien said, filling the silence my thoughts had created.

“Yes,” I agreed simply, tucking the card into my wallet. “He is.”

* * *

The rocky coastline of Riverton felt cool beneath me as I sat watching the sunset paint the Pacific in shades of amber and gold. The waves crashed against the bluffs below, sending spray into the air that caught the dying light like scattered diamonds. From this vantage point, I could see the entire town spread out behind me, East and West temporarily united in the evening's golden glow.

The past weeks had shifted something fundamental in how I moved through the world. Not just the practical changes, my new job at the bookstore, college classes starting soon, the easing of immediate custody concerns, but something deeper about how I understood my place in the universe.

For ten years, I'd believed independence was the only safe option. That relying on anyone meant risking disappointment my family couldn't afford. That walls were necessary protection rather than potential prisons. That my own needs and wants were luxuries to be deferred indefinitely in service of responsibilities I'd accepted. The Leo Reyes Guide to Surviving: Do It All Yourself and Never Ask for Help.

The question was simple, even if the answer wasn't: What did I want with Ethan?

He'd proven himself reliable in crisis, thoughtful with my siblings, respectful of my boundaries. But there was more between us than practical partnership.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to consider possibilities I'd automatically rejected before. A partnership that strengthened rather than threatened family stability. Connection that supported rather than competed with my responsibilities. Balance rather than the all or nothing approach that had defined the past decade.

The prospect felt terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, like standing at these cliffs had once felt as a teenager, watching the waves crash far below and wondering what it would feel like to dive into that churning water.

As darkness settled over the Pacific, the lighthouse beam began its steady sweep across the water, and I made my decision. Not with dramatic certainty, but with cautious determination, the same approach that had guided every important choice since I became my siblings' guardian. Eyes open to the complexities, aware of the risks, but unwilling to foreclose possibility out of fear alone.

I pulled out my phone, composing a text to Ethan before I could talk myself out of it:

Leo

Would you like to have dinner Friday? Just us. After Sophie's at her sleepover and Mari takes Diego to his friend's house.

Simple words that nonetheless made my heart race as I hit send. Not a declaration or a promise, but an invitation to explore what might exist between us beyond crisis management and professional partnership. A step toward something I'd denied myself for so long I'd almost forgotten how to want it.

His response came almost immediately.

Ethan

I'd love that.

The quiet joy that bloomed in my chest felt dangerous in its intensity, hope being a particularly painful form of vulnerability when you've learned how quickly it can be extinguished. But as I stood to leave, tucking my phone away with its confirmation of Friday plans, I allowed that fragile feeling to remain rather than immediately tamping it down.