“Hey.”
I turned.
Ethan sat on the low stone wall dividing our properties.
He had changed clothes.
Jeans.
Gray sweatshirt.
No audience.
No cameras.
No grin.
“You’ve got to stop appearing around my house unexpectedly,” I said.
“I live next door.”
“Still.”
He stood.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then he held out two paper cups.
“I brought coffee.”
I looked at the cup.
“It’s almost ten.”
“Decaf.”
“That’s suspiciously considerate.”
“I’m trying something new.”
I accepted it.
We sat on the stone wall.
For perhaps thirty seconds we simply looked at the empty street.
Finally Ethan said, “You knew I was going to take that escape.”
“Yes.”
“That’s going to bother me for months.”
“Good.”
He laughed quietly.
Then became serious.
“My dad told you about the academy.”
“He did.”
Ethan stared at his coffee.
“Of course he did.”
“He wasn’t insulting it.”
“He doesn’t have to.”
“You two seem to have mastered conversations where nobody says what they mean.”
That earned me a sideways look.
“Army taught you diplomacy?”
“No. Neighbors did.”
He smiled.
Then his smile faded.
“My mom understood.”
“The academy?”
He nodded.
“She died four years ago.”
