It was enough. More than enough.
It was everything.
7
ALMOST A VOICE
NATE (AGE 17)
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 thanthe 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 withEvan 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.
