Lucky Break
Chapter Thirteen - What to Say
Leo did not tell Ronise about the offer.
Not immediately. Not later that evening. Not the next morning, when the light came in pale and undecided and he lay awake longer than usual, listening to the city assemble itself.
It wasn’t secrecy exactly. It was sequencing.
Some things, he was learning, couldn’t be spoken until they had settled into shape. And this—whatever this was—still felt too fluid, too alive. Saying it out loud would have forced it into grammar before it was ready, would have made it sound like intention when it was still only orientation.
He met Ronise that afternoon at the museum again, though neither of them had planned it that way. It was the kind of coincidence that no longer felt orchestrated, just earned.
She was sitting on a bench in one of the quieter galleries, hands folded loosely in her lap, head tilted slightly as if listening to something the room itself was saying. Leo approached without announcing himself, then stopped, suddenly unsure whether speech would improve or fracture the moment.
“You can sit,” she said calmly. “I could hear you deciding.”
He smiled and sat beside her, careful not to crowd the space between them. The bench was cool beneath his palms. He registered this, along with the faint echo of footsteps elsewhere in the building, the way the air smelled faintly of dust and polish and time.
They stayed that way for a while. Not silent—quiet. The difference mattered.
Leo noticed how much effort it took not to reach for words. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he had too many versions of it. Each one felt slightly dishonest in a different way.
Eventually, Ronise spoke. “You’ve been holding something back.”
Leo let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s not obvious,” she said. “It’s consistent.”
He nodded, eyes on the floor. “I don’t know how to say it yet.”
“You don’t have to,” Ronise replied. “But you do have to decide whether not saying it is for you—or for me.”
That landed gently, and all the harder for it.
Leo thought of Kevin at his kitchen table. Of the word invitation. Of how carefully the offer had been framed, not as destiny, not as heroism, but as attention. He felt the weight of it now, not as pressure, but as responsibility deferred.
“I’m afraid,” he said finally, “that if I say it, it becomes real.”
Ronise turned her head toward him, expression open, unguarded. “It already is.”
He swallowed. “I don’t want to make you part of something you didn’t ask for.”
Ronise smiled faintly. “Leo, I didn’t ask to be blind either. Life tends to assign roles without consultation. The question is whether we pretend not to notice.”
He laughed softly, the sound edged with relief and something like recognition. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say the thing that makes my version sound cowardly.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think you’re a coward. I think you’re careful. Those aren’t the same.”
They sat again, the air between them dense with unsaid things. Leo became acutely aware of his body—of the discipline required not to fill the space, not to perform reassurance, not to rush toward resolution as though speed itself were virtue.
This, he realised, was the real work. Not the offer. Not the possibility of intervention or responsibility.
This.
Being present when silence asked something of him.
“Are you happy?” Ronise asked suddenly.
Leo considered the question seriously, the way one does when the answer might change shape mid-sentence.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “But not light.”
Ronise smiled. “Good. Light happiness tends to drift. Heavier ones stick.”
He looked at her then, really looked—at the calm certainty in her posture, the way she occupied space without apology or expectation, without needing the room to rearrange itself around her.
“I don’t know where I’m going,” he said.
She nodded. “Neither do I.”
“But you seem so—”
“Settled?” Ronise finished. “I’m not. I’m oriented. There’s a difference.”
Leo felt something in him align—not resolve, not certainty, but permission.
When they stood to leave, he offered his arm. She took it without ceremony. The contact was brief, practical, intimate in its restraint.
At the door, Ronise paused. “When you’re ready to tell me,” she said, “don’t try to make it impressive. Just make it honest.”
He nodded. “I can do that.”
She smiled, and for a moment her face lit with that same quiet beauty he’d noticed before—not performative, not dazzling. Just real.
As she walked away, cane tapping softly against the floor, Leo stood watching longer than necessary.
He didn’t feel resolved.
But he felt capable of resolution.
And for now, that was enough.
Sit. Relax. Enjoy the silence. Notice… everything.
Now, on with your day.