Page 17 of The One Who Changed Everything

“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 justyourdaughter? 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 façade. "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, unbiddenand 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.”

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