8. Evan
CHAPTER 8
Evan
I wasn’t sure why I was at the library—to confront Samantha? Demand answers? Maybe just to lay eyes on her again.
But before I could figure it out, I saw someone I hadn’t expected.
Sophia.
Curled up in a worn armchair, a book balanced on her knees, completely lost to the world within its pages. Oblivious to me. Oblivious to the storm raging inside my chest.
And just like that, any illusion of control I had vanished.
I searched for any sign of Samantha, but she was nowhere to be found. Which was good, because I was ninety percent sure she would cut me off at the knees before she let me talk to Sophia alone.
"Hey there," I said softly, not wanting to startle the young girl.
Her head popped up, and even though I was a grown man who ran into burning buildings for a living, I found myself hesitating. The way she looked at me then, with that open, warm smile—it was enough to nudge my feet forward.
"Hi. You’re Evan, right?" She bookmarked her page with a gentle touch. “From the parade.”
"I am. And you’re Sophia.” She nodded shyly. “Whatcha reading?" I asked as I settled into the chair opposite hers, trying to make myself comfortable without engulfing the entire seat.
"It's a novel about time travel—really fascinating." Her eyes lit up, animated by the topic.
"Time travel, huh? Ever wish you could zip back to certain moments or...?" I trailed off, genuinely curious about her answer.
"Sometimes," she admitted, tilting her head thoughtfully. "But more than going back, I think I'd like to see where things end up. To see if…" She trailed off, her cheeks pinkening. She had that look of someone far older than her thirteen years, like she'd pondered these questions before.
"To see your future," I said, nodding slowly. "Are you sure you want to know? Knowing could be the thing that changes it."
"Exactly! That’s what this book is about," she said, lifting it slightly to show me the cover. "Every choice you make sets off a chain reaction. It’s kind of cool to think about."
"Sounds pretty deep for a summer read," I said with a grin.
Sophia laughed, the sound light and effortless. "What can I say? I like my vacations with a side of overthinking."
"Can't argue with that," I replied, chuckling.
We fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that wasn't awkward but felt like the pause between paragraphs on a page. I watched her as she fiddled with the edge of her book.
"So," Sophia said, suddenly tilting her head to one side as if struck by a sudden thought, "do you know my mom very well?"
I paused, feeling the weight of years in her simple question. There was a history there, one that hung heavy in my chest. I chose my words carefully. "We were friends a long time ago," I finally replied, the hint of nostalgia creeping into my voice like smoke through closed doors.
“Hmmm." She nodded, seeming to accept the answer. It was disarming, really, how someone so young could possess such poise.
The conversation meandered then, flowing effortlessly from the book she was reading to the odd quirks of life in Minden. As I listened to her speak, the timbre of her voice carried a warmth that tugged at something deep within me. The more we talked, the more I saw fragments of Samantha in her gestures, in the earnestness of her eyes.
The cadence of Sophia's laughter was a melody I never knew I'd missed, but before another word could dance off my tongue, reality came crashing in.
"Excuse me.” Samantha’s voice was cool and precise. I turned to face her, noting the tightness in her jaw. "Evan, can we talk? In private,” she added with a glance toward Sophia.
"Of course," I replied, standing up a little too quickly, the chair screeching in protest against the library's aged wooden floor. I shot Sophia an apologetic smile, which she returned with a curious tilt of her head, and followed Samantha down the narrow aisle between shelves heavy with whispered stories.
As we walked through the maze of bookcases, there was no mistaking the purpose in Samantha's stride. She was ticked.
"Is everything alright?" I ventured, my voice betraying none of the storm brewing within. The librarian in her would appreciate the hushed tone, but the woman who once knew my heart might hear the underlying concern.
"Not here," she said curtly, leading me to a secluded corner of the library before whirling on her heel.
“You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be talking to my daughter.” Her exasperation and anger was written all over her face. And a hint of fear I hated to see. She stood across from me, arms crossed in a barricade I remembered all too well.
Her gaze held mine, searching for an answer or perhaps the resolve to pose a question of her own. And there we stood, two stories intersecting at a crossroads, the next sentence yet unwritten.
I ignored her statements for now.
"Is Sophia just your daughter? Or is she mine, too?" The question hung in the air like the motes of dust swirling in a shaft of sunlight filtering through the high windows.
Her reaction was immediate, a sharp intake of breath as if I'd knocked the wind out of her. "What? No," she replied quickly, a crack in her usually composed facade. "Evan, you're not—"
But her words splintered there, and the fragments hung between us, suspended in disbelief. My heart, which had been pounding against its cage, seemed to stop altogether. For more than a week, I’d been turning over the meeting at the parade in my mind. Running the timeline, trying to figure out what it meant. I’d quietly asked everyone I knew in town, which admittedly wasn’t very many people, about her. Only to have everyone say the same thing. No one knew who Sophia’s father was.
But Samantha was saying it wasn’t me.
I looked at her, really looked, trying to find the Samantha I once knew. The one whose laughter could light up the darkest room, and whose honesty was as clear as the depths of her eyes. But this woman before me was shuttered, closed off with walls so thick I couldn't hope to climb them.
"Sam," I said again, softer this time, the name feeling foreign yet achingly familiar on my tongue. "Don't lie to me. Not about this."
My mind raced, piecing together snippets of memories, trying to bridge the years we'd lost. The warmth of her smile, the touch of her hand—it all flooded back, along with the ache of our sudden separation. Jealousy flared within me, unbidden and fierce. Had there been someone else? Another man who'd stepped in so quickly after our fling?
I wanted to shake the truth from her, to wake up from this dream where everything I thought I knew was turned on its head. The silence stretched taut, ready to snap. It took every ounce of strength I had not to let the hurt twist into anger.
"Look at her, Samantha," I urged, my voice low and strained. "She has your eyes, your smile. She's curious and kind and—"
"Stop," she interjected, her voice steel wrapped in velvet. "Just stop, Evan."
But I couldn't stop—not now, not when the possibility of a connection like this dangled just out of reach. My gaze bore into hers, searching for any sign of the truth.
"Tell me," I pressed, my resolve hardening. "Tell me I'm wrong."
The library, with its towering shelves and whispering pages, felt too small suddenly, the weight of our shared history pressing down on me. And as I awaited her response, it wasn't just answers I sought. It was redemption, a second chance at a story I thought had ended long ago.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “She’s not yours.”
The words hit harder than I expected, a sharp, surprise blow to the ribs. She wasn’t mine.
I should have felt relief. I should have walked away, reassured that my past hadn’t left a mark I never knew about. But instead, an ache bloomed deep in my chest—raw, inexplicable, and wholly unwelcome.
I swallowed hard, glancing toward Sophia across the library. She was still tucked into her chair, completely unaware of our confrontation. She wasn’t mine. That truth should have settled things, but it only left a hollow space where something unnamed had taken root.
“You hesitated,” I said, my voice quieter now, less demanding but no less desperate.
Samantha’s jaw tightened. “Because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
She was right. I didn’t. Not because I thought she was lying, but because something inside me didn’t want to accept it. I had somehow come to accept the possibility that Sophia was mine. I had been looking for myself in her—in the way she smiled, in the way she carried herself with quiet confidence. I wanted—what? A connection? A chance to rewrite the past, to make up for what I’d lost?
But there was no fixing what was never broken.
And that was the most frustrating part. If Sophia wasn’t mine, then there was no reason for this continued draw toward Sam. She deserved better than me and had obviously moved on from our ill-fated affair.
I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face. “I don’t know why this matters so much to me.”
Samantha’s expression softened, the fight in her eyes flickering for just a moment. “Neither do I.”
How had I let so many years slip through my fingers without finding her? If I had been more persistent, if I had pushed harder against the walls she built, could I have been there for Sophia? For Samantha as a young, single mother? Would I have raised another man’s child?
I left the library with my head spinning, the echo of Samantha's denial haunting each step.