Chapter 61
Claire
Nothing changed the next day.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
The house still smelled like coffee and toast. The radio murmured softly from the kitchen. Outside, Maplewood went about its morning like nothing monumental had happened beneath the stars the night before.
I came early to pick Lily up for school, since Ethan had an important workday, and found him at the counter, buttering toast like his life depended on it.
“You’re going to tear the bread,” I said.
He glanced down. “I am?”
“Yes. Aggressively.”
He slowed, sheepish. “Sorry.”
Lily slid into her chair, swinging her legs. “Are we late?”
“No,” Ethan and I said at the same time.
We exchanged a look.
Then both of us looked away.
We didn’t talk about last night. Not really. We moved around it, passed the coffee, commented on the weather, discussed Lily’s spelling test like it was a matter of national importance.
When we finally did speak, it came sideways.
That night, after Lily was asleep and the house had gone quiet, we stood at opposite ends of the kitchen.
“I don’t want to rush,” Ethan said finally.
I nodded. “Me neither.”
A beat.
“We were… intense,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “Before.”
I smiled faintly. “That’s one word for it.”
“I don’t want to be that again,” he said. “I want to do this right.”
“I want to get to know you,” I said. “The version who exists now.”
His shoulders eased, just a little. “Yeah. Me too.”
That decision, I realized, was far more intimate than giving in would have been.
The nights settled into a rhythm.
After Lily was asleep, after the stories and the night-light and the careful kiss to her forehead, I found myself lingering. Sometimes we sat on the porch, mugs cooling between our hands, cicadas filling the spaces where words didn’t need to go.
“Did you hear the bakery changed owners?” I said once.
Ethan grimaced. “Tell me they didn’t mess with the cinnamon rolls.”
“They absolutely did.”
“That’s criminal.”
Sometimes in the evenings we walked the block together, slow, unhurried. The streetlamps casting long shadows across the pavement.
“They painted over the mural,” I told him. “The one by the high school.”
He stopped walking. “What?”
“Apparently it didn’t fit the town’s ‘new image.’”
He shook his head. “That mural taught me more about art than any class I ever took.”
I watched him as he talked, his hands moving as he spoke, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the strong lines of his forearms. The porch light caught on them, turning the motion almost hypnotic, and my gaze followed before I could stop myself.
I became acutely aware of my own body in those moments, the way my pulse quickened, the way heat gathered low and insistent, the way I had to remind myself to breathe.
Once, he noticed me staring.
He paused mid-sentence.
“What?” I asked, too quickly.
His eyes darkened, just a fraction. Then he looked away. “Nothing.”
His constant, deliberate restraint, was what made it unbearable.
The tension sharpened in the weeks that followed.
Our shoulders brushed when we turned corners too close. His hand hovered at my back when we crossed streets.
Never touching.
Always close enough.
One night, on a darker stretch of road, he reached for my hand without thinking. I slid mine into his.
He squeezed once, grounding. His thumb brushed my knuckles like it belonged there.
I stared at the faint scar along his jaw.
“You’re doing that thing,” he said quietly.
“What thing?”
He stopped walking. Looked at me. His gaze dropped to my mouth.
The air thickened.
Silence stretched.
I stepped back, not because I wanted space, but because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.
He didn’t follow.
Later, sitting on the porch steps, knees angled toward each other, I told him about Brandon.
About the quiet loneliness. About shrinking myself.
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “I never want you to feel like that again.”
“You can’t promise that,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “But I can promise I’ll never make you feel unwanted.”
I nodded. “I know.”
The porch was quiet again, the night settling around us.
“I wasn’t trying to make Brandon sound awful,” I added after a moment. “Honestly? Compared to Sophie’s husband, he was a prince.”
Ethan snorted softly. “Low bar.”
“I don’t even want to hear about that situation,” I said. “It makes my head hurt.”
He hesitated. “She… she married someone, right? Last time I saw her, she’d sworn off men completely.”
“She did,” I said. “And then she married one anyway. And had a baby.”
He blinked. “A baby?”
“Four,” I corrected. “A boy. Owen. He’s ridiculously cute.”
Ethan shook his head slowly. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “I was with Brandon, and I loved him. But Sophie doesn’t even like her husband. I don’t understand how she puts up with him.”
Ethan frowned. “Now that you mention it… I heard something. A rumor. One of the parents in Lily’s class said something a while back, but I figured they were talking about a different Sophie.”
I looked at him. “Don’t think anything of it,” I said easily. “Owen is her husband’s kid. No matter what anyone says.”
He nodded, accepting it without pushing.
A few seconds passed.
“Did you ever hear anything about Ashley?” I asked.
Ethan went very still.
“No,” he said. Then, quieter, “I didn’t.”
I studied his face. “Why didn’t you ask? Anyone?”
He swallowed. “I didn’t want to carry someone else’s misery too. I had enough of my own.”
“That’s fair,” I said gently. “But you don’t have to worry.”
He looked at me, hopeful and afraid all at once.
“She’s fine,” I said. “Married. Two kids, if her mother is to be believed. She left not long after you did.”
Ethan closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for years.
“Thank God,” he said. “I’ve wondered about her more times than I’d like to admit.”
He looked at me, earnest. “Thank you for telling me.”
I watched the tension ease out of his shoulders, saw how much lighter he looked.
Only then did I realize how long he’d been carrying it.
Our eyes locked.
“Do you ever think about before?” I asked.
“Every day.”
“I miss you,” I said softly. “Not the past. Just you.”
“Claire,” he said, like a warning.
“I know. I’m not asking.”
“If you did,” he said, voice low, “I’m afraid, I’d give you everything.”
That was the problem.
Some nights, when I left, I felt his gaze on my back like a touch.
At home, leaning against my door, heart racing, body humming, I wanted him to end the careful distance we kept choosing.
I hadn’t felt like this since I was young, raw, and unsteady with want.
Only now it was worse.
Because I knew what it cost. Perhaps, because I knew what it felt like to lose him. And despite the fear, the scars, each and every quiet moment with him, made me want to risk everything.
That was the danger, not in what we did. But in everything we didn’t.
And the terrifying knowledge that once we crossed that line, there would be no turning back.
And I wasn’t sure I would survive it if it broke me again.