Three days later, Ryan blocked Ethan’s driveway completely, not half blocking, fully. The Challenger parked dead centered behind the truck, bumper touching bumper with a precision that said it wasn’t accidental. Ethan stood in his driveway at 7:20 in the morning with Lily’s school bag over one shoulder, his coffee in hand, looking at the car.
Lily came out behind him, saw the car, and said, “Seriously.” “Go back inside,” Ethan said. “I’ll drive you in a minute.” She hesitated. “Go ahead,” he said, and she went. He walked to Ryan’s front door and knocked. Thirty seconds, a minute. He could hear movement inside. He knocked again. The door opened. Ryan was in sweatpants, shirtless, holding his phone, looking like he’d been awake for an hour. He looked at Ethan with the expression of a man who had been expecting this and was pleased it was happening.
“Hey,” Ryan said. “Move your car,” Ethan said. “I didn’t realize I was blocking you,” Ryan said. The performance of innocence was almost casual, like he wasn’t even trying hard. “Move your car, please,” Ethan said. Ryan scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I’ll get to it. I’ve got to finish something first. Give me like—” “Ryan.” Something in the single word. Not a threat, not a shout, just his name delivered with a specific kind of finality that made Ryan stop talking.
A very long beat. “Give me a sec,” Ryan said. But his voice had changed slightly. The performance had slipped a half step. “Thank you,” Ethan said. He turned and walked back to his driveway. Four minutes later, the Challenger moved. Ethan drove Lily to school. “What did you say to him?” she asked, looking out the window. “I said please,” Ethan said. She looked at him sideways. “Just please.” “And thank you,” he said.
She didn’t laugh. She chewed her lip for a second, looking at him. “Dad, are you okay?” “I’m fine, Lil.” “You don’t—” She stopped. “You seem like you’re thinking very hard about something.” “I always think very hard.” “You know what I mean.” He glanced at her. She was looking at him with those eyes that had always, even when she was four years old, seemed to see further into him than they had any right to. Her mother’s eyes. He felt the old grief move through him, brief and familiar and quiet. “I’m fine,” he said. “I promise.” She looked at him a moment longer. Then she said, “Okay.” And turned back to the window. The rest of the drive was quiet.
That afternoon, Ryan Whitmore’s friends gathered in the backyard for what appeared to be a training session. Shirtless, loud, throwing each other around on the mat Ryan had set up under a canopy. Legitimate training. Ethan could see the technique. See that these weren’t just guys roughhousing. Ryan was the best of them. Fast, strong, spatially aware. He had the footwork of someone who’d put in real time.