Chapter 7 Almost a Voice
ALMOST A VOICE
Moonbeam Café had become our sacred space. Not officially, not in any way that would make sense to anyone else, but in the quiet understanding that existed between Evan and me—this booth by the window, with its cracked vinyl seats and the neon sign buzzing outside, belonged to us.
Martha didn't even ask our order anymore. Hot chocolate for Evan, black coffee and whatever pie she was pushing that day for me. Tonight it was apple cinnamon, the kind that made the whole café smell like autumn and home-cooked comfort.
Evan sat across from me, broad shoulders filling out his flannel in ways that made my brain do stupid things I wasn't ready to examine.
Seventeen looked good on him—jaw sharper, chest broader, hands that had grown into their strength.
But it was his eyes that held me captive, hazel depths that seemed to glow faintly in the café's warm light.
“So I'm thinking about sneaking out to the Old Mill this weekend,” I said, cutting into my pie with more focus than the task required. “Night photography. The way moonlight hits those broken windows should be incredible.”
Evan's mouth quirked up at the corner, that almost-smile I'd learned to treasure over the past year. He pulled out his notebook—always the notebook, words safer on paper than spoken aloud—and wrote something before sliding it across the table.
Dangerous. Why at night?
“Because dangerous makes for better art,” I said, grinning. “And because normal people are asleep, which means fewer witnesses to my inevitable tumble into the stream.”
This time he actually chuckled, a low sound that rumbled in his chest and made something flutter behind my ribs. A year ago, getting any sound out of Evan Callahan had felt like winning the lottery. Now his laughter, rare as it was, had become as necessary as breathing.
“Great, now you're laughing at me?” I said, trying to cover the way my heart was doing gymnastics. “Guess I'm doomed to be the comic relief in my own life story.”
Not laughing at you, he wrote, and there was warmth in his handwriting that matched the soft expression on his face. With you.
He was beautiful when he smiled.
I took a sip of coffee to buy myself time, studying him over the rim of my mug. The past year had changed him in ways that went beyond physical growth. Where once he'd held himself like he was trying to disappear, now there was quiet confidence in the way he occupied space.
It made my mouth go dry in ways I definitely wasn't ready to think about.
“You could come with me. To the mill. I could use someone to hold the extra camera gear.” I said, because silence with Evan was comfortable but my brain needed the distraction of conversation.
Evan's eyebrows rose, and he scribbled quickly:
At night? Alone?
“Well, not alone if you're there,” I pointed out, then caught the implication of what I'd just suggested. Sneaking out together, wandering around abandoned buildings in the moonlight, just the two of us and whatever strange energy had been building between us for months.
Heat crawled up my neck, and I focused on my pie with renewed determination.
Your parents would worry, Evan wrote, saving me from having to examine why the idea of being alone with him in the dark made my pulse race.
“They worry anyway,” I said. “It's their job. Besides, they like you. Mom's been asking when you're coming over for dinner.”
Something flickered across Evan's face—surprise, maybe, or pleasure. His pen hesitated over the paper before he wrote: She asked about me?
“Are you kidding? You're all she talks about.” I grinned, remembering Mom's endless questions about my “sweet, quiet friend” and whether he was eating enough. “I think she's adopted you as a second son without even meeting you yet. Dad too, in his weird, gruff way.”
Evan's cheeks went pink, and he ducked his head to hide behind his hair. It was adorable in a way that made my chest ache with fondness.
“Actually,” I said, the words tumbling out before my brain could stop them, “you should come over tonight. Right now. Mom made way too much lasagna, and Dad's been asking about your dad's lumber business. Something about local sourcing for a project he's working on.”
Evan's head snapped up, eyes wide with what looked suspiciously like panic.
“Nothing formal,” I added quickly. “Just dinner. Casual. You can even use your notebook if talking gets too overwhelming.”
For a moment, I thought he might bolt. His fingers tightened around his pen, and I could practically see him calculating escape routes. But then his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he wrote:
You sure they want me there?
“Evan.” I waited until he looked at me, really looked at me. “They've been asking about you for months. Mom lights up every time I mention your name. Trust me, they want you there.”
He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Then he nodded, just once, and my heart did a small celebration dance in my chest.
“Come on then,” I said, standing and leaving money on the table. “Let's go feed you some of Anna Harrington's famous lasagna before I change my mind and decide I want to keep you all to myself.”
The walk to my house was quiet, but it was the comfortable kind of silence that had developed between us over months of friendship.
Evan's presence beside me was solid, reassuring in ways I didn't want to examine too closely.
When our shoulders brushed as we navigated around a puddle, I felt that familiar flutter of awareness that I'd been studiously ignoring for weeks.
Maybe months.
Definitely wasn't going to think about that tonight.
“Fair warning,” I said as we approached my front door, “Mom's going to fuss. It's what she does. Just smile and nod and let her pile food on your plate.”
Evan's mouth quirked up in that almost-smile, and he pulled out his notebook.
I can handle fussing, he wrote.
“Good, because you're about to get the full Anna Harrington experience.”
I wasn't kidding. The second we walked through the door, Mom appeared from the kitchen like she'd been waiting by the window for us to arrive. Her face lit up when she saw Evan.
“Evan!” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “What a wonderful surprise. Nate didn't tell me you were coming over.”
“Spur of the moment decision,” I said, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door. “Hope that's okay.”
“Of course it's okay. You know you're always welcome here.” She turned to Evan with that motherly smile that had never failed to make me feel loved and slightly embarrassed. “Are you hungry? I made lasagna, and there's enough to feed a small army.”
Evan nodded, then surprised me by actually speaking. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. That's very kind.”
His voice was quiet, careful, but it was there. Real words spoken aloud in my living room, and Mom's face practically glowed with delight.
“Please, call me Anna. And it's my pleasure.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on, let's get you both fed.”
Dad looked up from his newspaper when we entered the kitchen, taking in Evan's presence.
Evan extended a hand and said, quietly but clearly, “Mr. Harrington. Thank you for having me.”
“Michael,” Dad corrected, shaking Evan's hand with obvious approval. “And you're welcome anytime. Nate talks about you constantly.”
Heat flooded my face. “Dad.”
“What? You do.” He turned back to Evan with something that might have been a smile. “All good things, don't worry.”
Evan's cheeks went pink, but he didn't retreat. If anything, he seemed to stand straighter, meeting Dad's eyes with quiet confidence.
Dinner was a revelation. Not the food—though Mom's lasagna was, as always, incredible—but watching Evan navigate my family's chaotic warmth with growing ease.
He answered Mom's gentle questions about school and his interests, spoke briefly with Dad about the lumber business and local wildlife, even smiled when Mom insisted on giving him seconds.
But it was the way he looked at me throughout the meal that made my chest tight with something I didn't have words for. Like I was the anchor point in a room full of strangers, the safe harbor that made conversation possible.
Like I mattered to him in ways that went beyond simple friendship.
“Nate tells me you're quite the artist,” Mom said as she cleared plates. “He mentioned you do beautiful sketches.”
Evan glanced at me, surprise flickering across his face. I'd never told him I'd mentioned his art to my parents, had never admitted how often I found myself describing the careful way he moved his pencil across paper or the intense concentration that transformed his entire face when he was drawing.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I'd love to see them sometime,” Mom continued, either not noticing his discomfort or choosing to ignore it. “Nate's always going on about how talented you are.”
“Mom,” I warned, but she just smiled at me with that knowing look that suggested she saw things I wasn't ready to acknowledge.
“What? It's true. You do.”
Evan was looking at me with an expression I couldn't read, something soft and wondering that made my heart beat too fast. I cleared my throat and stood up quickly.
“I should show Evan my latest photos,” I said, desperate to escape whatever was happening.
“Of course,” Mom said, still wearing that knowing smile. “You boys go ahead. I'll handle the dishes.”
I led Evan upstairs to my room, hyperaware of his presence behind me, the way he had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling in the hallway.
My room felt smaller with him in it, cramped in a way that had nothing to do with physical space and everything to do with the way my awareness of him seemed to expand to fill every available inch.
“Sorry about that,” I said, closing the door behind us. “Mom gets enthusiastic about new people. Especially ones she thinks are good for me.”