Eyes that knew you not

The oak tree at Miller’s Creek had roots as old as Willowbrook itself – so deep they’d been there before the town was mapped, before the first house was built, before anyone had given the creek a name. When we were seven years old, Leo Vance climbed onto my shoulders to carve L+E into its lowest thick branch, his small hands steady even as I wobbled on the flat rock we’d dragged there for leverage. His breath was warm against my neck as he worked, the tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration, and when he finished, he leaned down to whisper in my ear: “We’ll be here forever, Elara. I promise.” Twenty years later, I traced those letters with my fingertips, feeling how the bark had grown around them like a scar that had healed but never truly faded. The creek babbled below, clear and cold as it had always been, minnows darting through the shallows in silver flashes I’d memorized by heart. I’d been back in town for six weeks, having packed up my small apartment in Seattle and driven twelve hours straight after getting the call about my mom’s stroke. Coming home felt like slipping into a worn wool sweater – familiar, comforting, but tight across the shoulders in ways I’d forgotten, like it no longer quite fit the person I’d become. “Still checking on our tree?” I turned to find him leaning against the trunk, one foot propped against the bark, holding two mason jars wrapped in thick cloth to keep the ice from melting. Leo had always been tall – even as a kid he’d shot up head and shoulders above everyone else – but now at twenty-seven, he filled out his worn flannel shirt and dark jeans in a way that made my stomach flip, though I’d never admit it to anyone, least of all him. His dark hair was a little too long, falling over his forehead the way it always did when he forgot to get a cut, and his calloused hands were wrapped around the jars of sweet tea – his thumb rubbing circles on the glass the way it did when he was nervous. “Some things need watching,” I said, taking the jar he offered. The tea was sweet enough to make my teeth ache – he still made it the way my grandma had taught him when we were ten, with twice as much sugar as anyone could possibly need, plus a splash of lemon juice from the tree in his backyard. “Your mom doing any better?” he asked, settling onto our flat rock – the same one I’d stood on to hold him up twenty years ago. It was worn smooth now, shaped by water and time and countless afternoons spent sitting side by side. “A little.” I twisted the lid off my jar and took a sip, the sweetness spreading warm through my chest. “She can move her right hand again – can hold a fork, turn pages in her books. The therapist says it’s a good sign, but she gets tired so fast. Spends most of her days looking out the window at her rose garden, like she’s waiting for something to bloom.” Leo nodded, his gaze fixed on the creek. He picked up a smooth gray stone, turning it over in his hands before skipping it across the water. It bounced three times – plink, plink, plink – before sinking into the deeper pool where we’d learned to swim when we were eight. “I’ve been stopping by when I can,” he said, his voice quiet. “Bringing her tomatoes from my dad’s garden. She likes them better than the ones from the store.” “I know.” My throat tightened a little. Mom had mentioned it in passing, how he’d show up without warning, help her water the roses, carry her groceries inside. How he’d stay and read to her when she got tired of watching TV. “Thank you, Leo. For looking out for her.” He shrugged, but I could see the way his ears turned pink – the same tell he’d had since we were kids when he was embarrassed by praise. “She’s like a second mom to me. Besides, someone has to make sure you eat real food instead of just energy bars and coffee.” I laughed, even though he was right. Since coming home, I’d barely had time to think about meals, let alone cook them. Between doctor’s appointments, physical therapy sessions, and trying to keep my freelance design business running from my childhood bedroom, food had become an afterthought. “I’ll have you know I made oatmeal this morning,” I said defensively. “With sugar?” “…And chocolate chips.” He grinned then – a real grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, and for a second, I was back in middle school, watching him laugh as we tried to build a fort out of old pallets behind his garage. “That’s not oatmeal, Elara. That’s dessert disguised as breakfast.” We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the water flow by. Leo had always been quiet – even as a kid he’d been the one who listened while I talked a mile a minute about my latest art project or the book I was reading – but lately he’d grown almost silent, like he was holding words behind his teeth that he couldn’t bring himself to say. Every so often I’d feel his eyes on me, warm and heavy, but when I’d look over, he’d already be staring at the creek or the sky or anything but my face. In high school, everyone in Willowbrook had assumed we’d end up together. Our parents would joke about wedding plans at every barbecue and holiday dinner, my mom would save magazine clippings of wedding dresses, his dad would talk about building us a house on the lot next to theirs. But I’d been too focused on getting out – on winning art scholarships, on getting into a good design program, on making something of myself beyond the creek and the oak tree and the small-town life that felt like it was holding its breath waiting for something to happen. Leo had been too scared to say a word, too worried that if he told me how he felt, I’d laugh and tell him we were just friends, that he was like a brother to me. “I saw your work in the gallery downtown,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “The ones of the Seattle skyline, with the rain streaking down the windows. They’re amazing.” “Thanks.” I’d sold three pieces – enough to pay for Mom’s medications and physical therapy for a few months, which was good because my savings were starting to run thin. “I missed painting trees and water though. Concrete and steel get boring after a while. No life to them.” “I know what you mean.” He picked up another stone, skipping it farther this time – four bounces before it disappeared. “You could stay. Paint here. Be here.” The words hung in the air between us, heavy and unspoken. I looked away, watching a red-tailed hawk circle high above the treetops, its wings spread wide against the blue sky. “Mom needs me right now. But after she’s better… I don’t know.” I trailed off, because it was true – I didn’t know what came next. I’d spent so long running from Willowbrook, from the familiarity and the quiet and the weight of everyone’s expectations, that I’d never stopped to think about what it would mean to stay. The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold that reflected off the water like liquid fire. Leo stood up, brushing dirt and grass from his jeans. “I should get back. Dad needs help with that diesel truck he’s been working on – something about the fuel injection system.” I stood up too, stretching my legs. The stone was cold beneath my jeans, and I could feel the stiffness in my back from sitting too long. “Tell him I said hi.” “I will.” He started to walk away along the creek path, then paused, his hand resting on a low-hanging branch of the oak tree. He turned back to look at me, and in the golden light of sunset, his eyes looked darker than ever, full of things he couldn’t say. “Elara? When you left for college… I had something I wanted to tell you.” “Tell me now.” I took a step toward him, my heart beating a little faster. After twenty years, maybe it was finally time to hear what he’d been holding back. But he just shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips. “Some things are better said when you’re sure the other person wants to hear them.” He let go of the branch and walked away, leaving me standing under the oak tree with the sweet tea growing warm in my hands and his words hanging in the air like mist over the creek.