The Way Back to Us - ​​Part 2: Fence Line Conversations

Morning coffee. A nod across the fence. Silence that slowly shifts into something almost comfortable. In Part 2 of The Way Back to Us, Vanessa and Evan find themselves caught in a quiet ritual neither expected, where small talk turns into companionship and long-buried memories refuse to stay hidden.

The Way Back to Us - ​​Part 2: Fence Line Conversations

Sometimes the hardest conversations start with nothing at all.

The mornings come early here, sunlight streaming through the thin curtains before I’m ready for it. I make coffee anyway, clutching the mug like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and step onto the back porch. The boards creak beneath my feet, the air cool enough that I pull my sweater tighter around me.

It’s quiet. It was always a little too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in when there’s no one left to fill it.

I’m halfway through my second sip when movement catches my eye. Next door, Evan steps out with a hose in hand, the arc of water darkening the soil around a row of plants.The set of his jaw is familiar, even with the years carved into it, the kind of steady presence that makes it too easy to remember who he used to be. For a second, it feels like I’m seventeen again, waiting for him to glance my way.

I clear my throat, forcing out a quiet, “Morning.”

His eyes flick to mine, cool and unreadable. For a heartbeat his eyes meet mine, then he turns away, silence doing all the talking.

The next day, it’s the same. And the day after that.

I sip my coffee, say hello. He nods, goes back to whatever task has his attention. Civil. Predictable. Like a script neither of us bothered to change.

Still, there’s something in the space between us, awkward, charged, a pull I don’t want to acknowledge. Every nod feels both like rejection and recognition, as if he’s keeping a wall up while reminding me he knows exactly who I am.

…………

It happens on a Tuesday. I’m halfway through my coffee when a scrabbling noise makes me look up. A tan blur bolts across the yard, his dog, tail wagging, ears flying as he barrels toward the hydrangeas like they’re his personal playground.

“Duke,” Evan calls, voice sharp but not loud. He strides across his lawn, hands firm on his hips, and for a second I just watch him, the way he fills the space like he’s always belonged there.

The dog trots back only halfway, tongue lolling, before veering toward me. I crouch automatically, scratching behind his ears. “Friendly,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“Too friendly,” Evan says, stopping at the fence. His arms cross over his chest, that closed-off posture I’m starting to recognize.

“He’s fine,” I answer, letting the dog sniff at my hand before he lopes back toward his yard. “Better than fine, honestly. He brightened my morning.”

Something flickers in his expression, quick, gone before I can name it. “Sorry about that.”

I shake my head. “No harm done.”

The silence stretches, but this time it isn’t absolute. It feels like an opening, small and fragile. And for the first time since I came back, it doesn’t feel impossible to cross.

…………

The next morning, I step onto the porch with my coffee, not expecting anything more than another nod. Instead, Evan is already outside, hose coiled neatly at his feet. He glances over, then asks, “Settling in?” The words are plain, but they hit like more than small talk.

“As well as anyone can in a house that hasn’t been touched in years,” I answer, wrapping both hands around my mug.

His mouth shifts, not quite a smile. “That old place will keep you busy.”

I glance at the row of tomatoes behind him, their vines staked in perfect order. “Looks like you’ve got it figured out.”

He shrugs, eyes on the plants. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

It’s nothing, weather, gardens, walls that still smell faintly of dust. Yet it feels like something. His voice is low, careful, and the way he avoids holding my gaze says as much as the words he does offer. I sip my coffee, studying him when I shouldn’t.

We fall into silence again, but this one feels different. Easier. Almost comfortable.

And later, when I step back inside, I catch myself already looking forward to tomorrow morning.

It doesn’t happen all at once. A nod turns into a question. A question turns into a few more words. Before long, the rhythm of our mornings changes.

I find myself stepping outside with my coffee just as he does, mugs in hand on opposite sides of the fence. The steam curls upward into the cool air, drifting between us like a secret we haven’t decided to share.

Some days we talk about nothing, rain in the forecast, the stubborn squirrel raiding his tomatoes, the way the light flickers in my kitchen. Other days we don’t talk at all, just stand there, leaning against the fence like it’s enough to be in the same space again.

The silence doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It stretches, but it doesn’t suffocate. There’s a strange comfort in it, like an old song I’d forgotten the words to but still remember the tune.

One morning, I catch him watching me over the rim of his mug. For the first time in decades, his mouth curves into the faintest smile, brief, barely there, but real.

It’s nothing. And somehow, it’s everything.

…………

The morning starts like the others, two mugs, two shadows leaning against the fence. But the conversation drifts into a lull, the kind that feels different. Not empty. Waiting.

Evan clears his throat, gaze fixed on the dirt at his boots. “My wife… passed three years ago.” His voice is even, almost flat, but the weight behind it is unmistakable.

I set my mug down on the rail, fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

He nods once, like he expected as much, and doesn’t add more.

The silence holds, and before I can stop myself, words slip free. “My marriage ended about a year ago. Mutual, technically. But it felt like it was fading. Like I was disappearing while the rest of the world kept going.”

His eyes lift then, meeting mine. No pity, no judgment, just understanding.

We don’t press. We don’t need to. The quiet settles between us, not heavy this time, but grounding.

For the first time since I came back, I don’t feel like I’m carrying it all alone. But the quiet between us scratches at old wounds, ones I’ve tried to forget. The prom dress hanging untouched on the closet door, mocking me with its promise of a night that never came. The phone ringing into silence while I sat frozen, certain I’d hear his voice if I just waited one more minute. My father’s shouting downstairs, sharper than usual, angrier than I’d ever heard him, every syllable thick with disappointment. The slam of a door so hard it rattled the frame, leaving me trembling in the dark.

What I’ve never said out loud is how long I stayed there, curled on the edge of the bed, every car that passed making me hope it was him. How the clock kept ticking, each minute stealing something I couldn’t get back. Hoping he would show up and say sorry he was late, he got caught up in something. But that never happened and he never came back.

And now when Evan finally looks up, it’s impossible not to wonder if he’s remembering it too. That one night neither of us ever speaks of, the night that broke us before we even had a chance to begin.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix