Short Stories by Joshua K-Leb

What Stays

The bus lets him off near the old bakery. The sign's been changed, different font, brighter paint, but he still knows it. The sidewalk feels narrower than he remembers, the air warmer. July in this town always felt like waiting for rain that never came.

John crosses the street, suitcase in one hand, a folded paper bag in the other. Inside is a gift, loosely wrapped, not meant to matter much. Just something for the table.

The engagement party for Matteo and Astrid is being held in the same house where his parents used to host long Sunday lunches. He hasn't seen Matteo in three years, maybe four. Long enough to forget why he stopped calling. Not long enough to forget her.

He stands at the gate a moment longer than he needs to.

The yard is filled with voices. Some familiar, some half-remembered. Everything's been trimmed and paved since he left. There's a new fence. A new lamp by the porch.

And then he sees her.

Beth.

She's near the back, helping someone set out drinks. The same tilt to her shoulders. The same way she moves without rush, always finishing one thing before reaching for the next.

She doesn't see him yet.

He walks in slowly, nods to a few faces, hands Matteo the bag.

"Astrid's inside," Matteo says, tucking the bag under his arm. "I didn't think you'd come," he adds, grinning.

"Yeah," John says. He glances toward the yard, toward the back. "Wasn't sure myself."

"Still writing?"

John nods. "Still at the hospital?"

"Only twelve-hour shifts for the rest of my life. Astrid hates it."

They laugh. It's easy, but it doesn't last long.

When he turns again, she's looking at him.

No surprise in her face. Just something quiet. Like she knew he'd come.

She walks over, glass in hand, dress catching light at the shoulders.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey."

Up close, she's softer than he remembered. Her hair's shorter now. Pulled back with a clip.

"You look the same," she says, not quite smiling.

"I almost said the same thing," he replies.

Cutlery clinks against a plate nearby. The party moves on behind them. Somewhere, someone laughs and says, "Who brought these?"

He realizes they've opened the bag.

"I wasn't sure if you'd show up," she says.

"I wasn't either."

She lifts the glass, sips something pale.

"How long are you back?" she asks.

"Just for this. Heading back Sunday."

She nods. "Figured."

He wants to say more. Something about the drive, or the weather. But nothing comes clean enough to speak.

Instead, he says, "You still at the school?"

"Mm-hmm. Still teaching third grade. Same classroom. Different kids every year."

"You like it?"

"Some days."

He looks at her, then away.