Page 27 of After the Rain

"That does sound cool, buddy."

"Mr. Mitchell said snakes shed their skin when they outgrow it, like how I outgrow my shoes. He said sometimes people change too, but they keep their same skin." Cooper paused thoughtfully. "Do you think people can change on the inside even if they look the same on the outside?"

The question was so innocently profound that it made my chest tight. "Yeah, I think people can change and grow throughout their lives."

"Good. Because I want to change into someone who's really good at building things like you."

"You're already really good at building things, Cooper. And you're only six. Imagine how good you'll be when you're my age."

"Will you still help me build things when I'm old like you?"

"I'm not old," I protested. "And yes, I'll help you build things for as long as you want me to."

The conversation should have grounded me, reminded me of what was important. Instead, it made me think about Ezra.

"Daddy, can we feed the ducks after I play?" Cooper asked, already unbuckling his seatbelt before I'd fully stopped the truck.

"We'll see if they're around tonight, buddy."

He raced toward the playground with typical six-year-old energy while I settled on our usual bench, watching other families navigate their evening routines. A Latina grandmother pushed her grandchild on the swings, calling out encouragement in Spanish. Two mothers in hijabs chatted while their children played together. Normal people living normal lives, none of them apparently struggling with feelings they couldn't name.

My mind kept drifting to Monday morning's drop-off, how carefully professional Ezra had been. The easy warmth we'd built over the past weeks had disappeared behind polite teacher smiles and appropriate boundaries. I understood the professional concerns—at least intellectually—but emotionally, the distance felt like rejection.

Which made no sense. Teachers maintained professional boundaries with parents all the time. It wasn't personal.

So why did it feel personal? Why did I find myself driving past the school during my lunch break, hoping to catch a glimpse of him on playground duty?

I was still wrestling with that question when I spotted a familiar figure walking alone on the river path. Ezra moved with that same thoughtful pace I'd noticed before, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the evening breeze.

Even from a distance, I could read the tension in his posture. He looked like someone working through a problem, and Iwondered if he was thinking about the same complications that had been keeping me awake at night.

My immediate impulse to approach him surprised me with its intensity. My heart actually started beating faster, like I was a teenager working up the courage to talk to a crush. The comparison made me uncomfortable but I couldn't deny the accuracy.

"Cooper, I'll be right back," I called to my son, who was attempting to traverse the entire playground without touching the ground.

"Okay, Daddy! Watch me be a ninja!"

Before I could second-guess myself, I was walking toward the path, my pulse hammering in a way that felt entirely disproportionate to a simple conversation with a friend.

"Ezra."

He turned at the sound of my voice, and his face lit up for just a moment before professional caution took over. That brief, unguarded smile hit me square in the chest.

"Wade. Hi." He glanced toward the playground where Cooper was conquering the monkey bars. "Evening walk?"

"Cooper needed to burn off some energy. You?"

"Same. Well, different kind of energy." He managed a self-deprecating smile. "Teaching kindergarteners is like conducting an orchestra of caffeinated squirrels some days."

The easy humor felt like a glimpse of the friendship we'd been building, and I realized how much I'd missed his laugh. The way his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, the genuine warmth in his voice.

"How's Cooper adjusting to everything?" Ezra asked, nodding toward the playground where my son was now demonstrating his monkey bar skills to an imaginary audience.

"Better than I expected."

Something flickered across Ezra's face—pleasure, maybe, or regret. "I'm glad."

"Daddy!" Cooper's voice carried across the playground. "Mr. Mitchell! Come push me on the swings!"

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