The space between us

Chapter 10;He showed up again

Stacy’s POV_

The last bell rings and the field empties fast. Kids stampede toward buses, cars, freedom. I don’t go.

I push through the library doors. Cooler air. Quieter. Smells like floor wax and paperbacks.

Mrs. Bennet glances up from the desk”School’s over,Stacy”

“I know,” I say. Voice quiet. “Library’s open.”

She nods. Goes back to stamping books. Thump. Thump._

I grab Table 7. Wobbly leg. Same one I always pick when I want to disappear. Dump my bag. Notebook out. Pen out.

I don’t open it. I just stare at the wood grain. Count the scratches. 17.

I read a book for about 2 hours.I didn’t want to go home;to that lonely house that made me always think about him.

Footsteps. Soft on carpet. Not rushed.

I don’t look up. But I know.

Cole Reyes.

He showed up again.

He stops at the end of my aisle. Not at my table. At the edge. Backpack slung over one shoulder.

He’s holding a book. _Sports Psychology for Dummies_. Cover bent.

“Table 3’s taken,” he says. No hello. Just fact. “And I wanted to catch up with you.”

I nod. Don’t speak.

He shifts his weight. Cleats gone, now sneakers. One lace untied.

“Do you… want me to go?” he asks. Same question as before.

My fingers tighten on the pen. Then loosen.

“No,” I say. Barely audible.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He pulls out the chair next to me. Not across. Next to. Leaves 8 inches of space. Doesn’t touch the table.

Just sits.

The silence was weird

He doesn’t talk.

I don’t talk.

Mrs. Bennet stamps another book. _Thump._

The AC hums. Someone coughs three tables over.

I can see his profile. Jawline. The way he chews his bottom lip when he’s thinking. Scar on his knuckle from basketball.

He notices me looking. Holds up his hand. Palm toward me.

“9 stitches,” he says quietly. “Age 12. Slider.”

I look back at my notebook. Dot. Dot. Dot.

“Does it hurt?” I ask. Before I can stop myself.

He blinks. Like he’s surprised I used words. “Nah. You get used to it.”

Silence again.

He doesn’t ask why I was timing instead of running.

He doesn’t ask why my voice is rusty.

He doesn’t ask why I wrote 18.7 on my hand and underlined it twice.

He just opens his book. _Sports Psychology for Dummies_.

Flips to a random page. Stares at it.

Then he frowns. “This is dumb.”

I glance over.

He points at a paragraph. “‘Visualize success.’ Like, bro. I visualized not falling in the sack race. Didn’t work.”

It’s not funny. Not really.

But my mouth twitches.

He sees it. Grins. Small. “There it is. Almost-smile. Caught it.”

I look down fast. Dot. Dot.

“You’re terrible at quiet,” I mutter.

“I’m terrible at a lot of things,” he says. “Sack racing. Reading. Not talking when I should.”

He closes the book. Sets it down. “Can I ask you something?”

I don’t answer.

He takes it as a yes. “Why’d you write 18.7 on your hand? You could’ve used paper.”

Damn I totally forgot about that.I had written the number because it kept popping up.

I shrug. “Didn’t have any.”

“Liar,” he says. Soft. Not mean. “You had a whole notebook.”

I don’t answer.

He leans back in the chair. One foot kicks the wobbly leg. Table shakes.

“18.7,” he says. “That’s my time. My disaster time. You kept it.”

I stare at the dots.

“Didn’t mean to,” I say finally.

“Sure,” he says. Doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t push.

He’s quiet for a minute. Then he reaches into his backpack. Pulls out a granola bar. Peanut butter.

Sets it on the table. Between us. In the 8 inches of space.

“Peace offering,” he says. “For calling your timing ‘sucks.’ It doesn’t. It’s perfect. Clinical. Scary.”

I stare at the granola bar. Don’t touch it.

“I’m not hungry,” I say.

“Nobody’s hungry in libraries,” he says. “It’s a rule. Mrs. Bennet will kill us both if she sees you eat it.”

That’s stupid.

I huff. Not quite a laugh. More like air escaping.

He catches it. Points at me. “There. That one. That was almost a laugh. Number 2 for the day.”

“I didn’t laugh,” I say.

“You did,” he says. “It sounded like a cat sneezing. Cute.”

My face goes hot. “Stop.”

“Make me,” he says. Then immediately winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I mean… I’ll stop. If you want.”

I don’t say I want him to.

I don’t say I don’t.

I push the granola bar back toward him. One inch.

He doesn’t take it. “Keep it. For later. When Mrs. Bennet goes home.”

I leave it there. Between us.

He’s bored. I can tell. He taps his pen on the table. Tap tap.

Then he stops. Looks at my notebook. Full of dots.

“Bet you can’t make 100 dots before I finish this chapter,” he says.

“What chapter?” I ask.

He opens the book again. “Chapter 4. ‘Overcoming Fear of Failure.’ Irony, right?”

I stare at him. “That’s not a bet. That’s just… counting.”

“Exactly,” he says. “You’re good at counting. I’m bad at reading. Fair match.”

He starts reading. Out loud, but whispering. Library-whisper.

“‘Fear is a natural response to—’” He stops. “This is boring.”

I draw another dot. 49.

He watches me draw it. “49. You’re fast.”

I draw 50.

He flips a page. “‘The brain processes failure in the—’ Nope. Lost me.”

He shuts the book again. “Okay new game. I say a word. You draw a dot for each syllable.”

I don’t look up.

“Banana,” he says.

I draw 3 dots.

“Correct,” he says. Grins. “Potato.”

2 dots.

“Ridiculous,” he says.

4 dots.

He’s making up words now. “Flabbergasted. Supercalifragilistic. No, that’s cheating.”

I draw dots anyway. 71. 72.

He’s laughing under his breath. Not loud. Just… amused. At himself. At this.

“Okay your turn,” he says. “You say a word.”

I hesitate. Then: “Stopwatch.”

He frowns. “2 syllables. Easy.” He draws 2 dots in the margin of his book. Terrible handwriting.

“Stop,” I say.

He draws 1 dot. Looks up. “Your turn.”

I say nothing.

He waits.

Then: “You’re cheating. Silence has zero syllables.”

I don’t deny it.

He leans closer. 4 inches now. “You’re winning. 89 dots. I’m losing at reading. This is unfair.”

Mrs. Bennet walks past. Stops. Looks at the granola bar on the table.

Then at us.

“No food,” she says. Firm.

Cole slides the granola bar off the table into his lap in one smooth move. Hides it. Innocent face.

Mrs. Bennet stares. Then walks away.

Cole exhales. Looks at me. Eyes wide.

I lose it. A real laugh. Small, but real. Comes out before I can choke it back.

He freezes. Then smiles. Big. Teeth. Dimple.

“There it is,” he says quietly. Like I’m a rare bird. “Number 3. Real laugh. Not cat-sneeze.”

I cover my mouth. Embarrassed. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he says. “You’re funnier when you’re not trying.”

My face burns. I draw 91. 92. Fast. To hide.

He watches me. Then quietly: “You have a good laugh. It’s… unpracticed. Like you forgot how.”

I stop drawing. Pen hovering.

“Don’t say stuff like that,” I mutter.

“Why?” he asks. Honest. Not flirty. “It’s true.”

I don’t answer.

He doesn’t push.

People start packing up. Backpacks zipping. Chairs scraping.

Cole doesn’t move. Still sitting 4 inches away. Still watching me draw dots.

100. I circle it.

He claps once. Soft. “New record. 100 dots. You win.”

I close the notebook.

He stands up. Backpack on. Book in hand. Untied lace dragging.

Takes two steps toward the aisle.

Stops.

Turns back.

“Hey Stacy?”

I look up.

“You’re gonna be here tomorrow?” he asks. Casual. Like he’s asking about homework.

I hesitate. Then nod. Small.

He smiles. Crooked. Ears red. “Good.Same table. I’ll bring a book that doesn’t suck. Maybe we can… I don’t know. Count stuff again. Or not talk. Both work for me.”

He backs into the aisle.

“Unless you don’t want me to,” he adds fast. “Totally cool if not.

I don’t say anything.

He waits 2 seconds.

Then: “Cool. Tomorrow. Counting or silence. Your call.”

He turns and walks away. Fast. Like he’s embarrassed he asked.

Leaves the 8 inches of space empty.

I sit there until Mrs. Bennet starts turning off lights.

Notebook closed. 100 dots circled.

Granola bar still on the table. He didn’t take it.

I pick it up. Put it in my bag.

Cole didn’t ask about why I’m quiet. Didn’t ask about the stopwatch or the smudged numbers on my hand.

He played a dumb game. He hid food from Mrs. Bennet. He made me laugh by being bad at reading.

That’s dangerous.

Because I came here to disappear.

He found me anyway. And didn’t try to pull me out.

He just sat in the quiet and made it less heavy.

I stand up. Legs shaky but holding.

Don’t.

But I keep the granola bar.

For tomorrow.

Just in case.