Page 7 of The Silence Between

7

UNFINISHED SENTENCES

ETHAN

M orning light sliced between the blinds of my Seattle apartment, cutting geometric patterns across the hardwood floors. I stood at the window, coffee cooling in my hand, watching the city twenty floors below wake like a mechanical beast. Delivery trucks. Commuters. The relentless forward motion of a place that never truly slept.

Behind me, cardboard boxes formed their own cityscape across my living room. My life reduced to labeled containers, ready for transport. The walls—now stripped of framed book covers and literary prizes—revealed lighter rectangles where success had hung, their absence more honest than their presence had been.

Three novels. Two major awards. Reviews in every publication that mattered. The external markers of having “made it” as a writer.

So why did the apartment feel like a museum to someone else's achievements?

My phone vibrated against the granite countertop, “MELISSA CALLING” illuminating the screen. My agent, with her perpetual energy and New York efficiency, never respected West Coast morning hours.

“Please tell me you've finished those revisions,” she said without greeting.

“Good morning to you too, Melissa.”

“The publisher's breathing down my neck, Ethan. We're already behind schedule.”

I gazed at my laptop, open to a document of half-completed revisions for a novel I no longer believed in. “I'm working on it.”

“Define 'working,'” she pressed. “Because Jonathan wants to see pages by Friday, and honestly, after the sales numbers on The Cartographer's Dream , we need to deliver something spectacular.”

The unspoken truth lingered between us: my second novel had outsold my first, but my third had underperformed expectations. The downward trajectory threatened everything I'd built.

“The reviews mentioned it felt... formulaic,” she continued, voice softening slightly. “Too similar to your previous work.”

“Because it's what they wanted,” I replied, bitterness slipping through my careful composure. “A commercial follow-up that wouldn't challenge readers too much.”

“Ethan.” Her sigh carried cross-country disappointment. “We've been over this. Nobody forced you to write anything. You delivered the manuscript.”

She was right, which only made it worse. I had compromised, convinced myself it was maturity rather than surrender.

“I'll send pages by Friday,” I promised, ending the call before she could extract further commitments.

The apartment's silence rushed back, emphasizing how empty thirty-two hundred square feet could feel. I moved to my desk and unlocked the bottom drawer—the only space in the methodically organized apartment that remained chaotic and personal.

Inside lay artifacts from a life I rarely acknowledged: a tarnished debate team medal from junior year, a faded photograph with one subject carefully folded out of view, and beneath these, a worn poetry collection. I withdrew the book, its spine cracked at familiar passages, certain pages dotted with underlined sentences in two different handwritings—mine in blue, his in black.

One passage in particular had been underlined twice, the paper thin from repeated handling:

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both...”

Frost's familiar lines mocked me with their simplicity. I remembered reading these words with Leo on the abandoned railroad bridge, stars scattered above us like promises neither of us would keep. His voice, serious and quiet: “Everyone quotes this poem wrong. They think it's about choosing the unusual path. But it's really about how we convince ourselves our choices were braver than they were.”

I closed the book, returning it to its drawer before memory could sink its teeth deeper. My phone showed 9:45 AM. I had exactly one hour and forty-five minutes to prepare for coffee with my ex-husband.

* * *

David chose a café equidistant between our old shared apartment and my new place—neutral territory for the diplomatic relations of the amicably divorced.

He arrived before me, because he always did, occupying a corner table with two coffees already waiting. Even in separation, he anticipated my preferences.

“You look exhausted,” he said as I sat down. No hello, just an observation.

“Final manuscript revisions,” I explained, accepting the coffee. “And packing.”

“Ah yes. The great escape.” His tone held no malice, just lingering bewilderment. “Still set on literary martyrdom in small-town America?”

“Teaching isn't martyrdom,” I countered, the familiar defense ready on my tongue. “It's meaningful work.”

“So is writing award-winning novels. Or was, until you decided it wasn't.”

I sipped my coffee to avoid responding immediately. David knew precisely how to locate the inconsistencies in my narrative—a skill that had made him both an excellent partner and an exhausting one.

“We should discuss the last of the separation details,” I redirected. “The movers are coming for the artwork next week. I've transferred the utilities to your name, and the lawyer says the condo sale should close by month's end.”

“Always so practical,” David noted. “I've made a list of the remaining kitchen items I'd like, if you don't mind.” He slid a meticulously organized spreadsheet across the table. “And my flight to Chicago is on the 15th, so I'd appreciate wrapping everything up before then.”

I nodded, scanning the list. After five years together—three dating, two married—our lives were being dismantled with the same careful planning we'd used to build them. No dramatics, no thrown plates or accusations. Just the quiet acknowledgment that something essential had always been missing.

“Running away to small-town America seems extreme, even for you,” David said, returning to his earlier point. “Riverton has what, twenty thousand people? And sits nowhere near any cultural center I'm aware of.”

“Thirty thousand,” I corrected. “And it has a community college with a decent arts program.”

“It's where you grew up,” he pressed. “Which makes this less about opportunity and more about regression.”

I met his gaze, recognizing the concern beneath his challenge. “It's where I might reconnect with why I started writing in the first place. Before agents and publishers and sales numbers.”

“And blow up your career in the process.”

“Maybe my career needs blowing up.”

David sighed, running a hand through his neatly trimmed hair—the only visible sign of distress he ever allowed himself. “I worry about you.”

“I know you do. But I need to do this.”

He studied me for a long moment, his expression shifting from frustration to resignation. “You've always had one foot out the door, you know. Even with me. Always looking for something you couldn't name.”

The observation landed with unexpected force. “What do you mean?”

“I used to think it was just writer's restlessness. The constant searching for new material.” He shrugged, the gesture carefully casual. “Now I wonder if it's because you left something behind before we ever met.”

I stared at him, unsettled by his perception. David had never known about Leo. Yet somehow he'd identified the ghost that had haunted our marriage.

“That's not fair,” I said finally.

“Isn't it?” His smile held no triumph, only sadness. “I hope you find whatever you're looking for, Ethan. I really do.”

As we parted outside the café, David hugged me with genuine affection. “For what it's worth, I think you're a brilliant writer. Just not always an honest one.”

I watched him walk away, his words trailing behind him like anchors, weighing me to truths I'd spent a decade avoiding.

* * *

The publishing party occupied a trendy converted warehouse in Capitol Hill, string lights crisscrossing the exposed ceiling, waiters circulating with locally sourced appetizers and craft cocktails. My paperback release wasn't significant enough to warrant such fanfare, but it coincided with the publisher's quarterly celebration of their literary lineup, allowing them to consolidate marketing efforts.

I stood near a display of my novel, watching attendees drift past. The cover featured a silhouetted couple against a sunset-streaked sky—beautiful but generic, revealing nothing of the book's actual content. One of many compromises I'd made without acknowledging them as such.

“There he is!” My publicist, Janine, materialized beside me, champagne flute in hand. “Ready for your adoring public?”

“As I'll ever be,” I replied, summoning the smile I'd practiced for such occasions—warm but not overeager, accessible but still carrying a hint of artistic mystique.

“We've got three bloggers who specifically requested interviews, the events coordinator from Elliott Bay Books, and that cute reviewer from Seattle Arts who's clearly got a crush on you.” She winked. “Use that charm.”

For the next hour, I performed the role of Ethan Webb, Literary Novelist. I discussed my “creative process” with practiced modesty, deflected questions about my personal life with self-deprecating humor, and recited the same carefully crafted anecdotes about the novel's inspiration that I'd delivered on the hardcover tour six months earlier.

“And how's the next book coming along?” asked the Elliott Bay coordinator, a woman with oversized glasses who controlled access to the city's most important reading venue.

“Evolving,” I answered, deploying deliberate vagueness. “I'm exploring some new directions.”

“Exciting! We loved The Cartographer's Dream —such an intimate exploration of memory and loss. Your fans are hungry for more of that emotional authenticity.”

I nodded, fighting the bitter laugh building in my throat. Authenticity. The quality my work had been steadily shedding with each new contract.

When Janine finally signaled it was time for my remarks, I approached the small podium with a familiar hollow sensation expanding beneath my ribs. I thanked the publisher, the booksellers, the readers. I shared an appropriately humble reflection on seeing my work reach new audiences. I spoke about the “privilege of storytelling” and the “responsibility to readers.”

“Literature has always been about connection,” I heard myself saying, my voice projecting confidence I didn't feel. “About bridging the gap between disparate experiences.” My hands gripped the podium edges as I continued with practiced poise. The faces before me blurred into a collective entity, nodding at all the expected moments.

“This novel emerged from questions I've wrestled with about identity and belonging,” I continued, reciting lines I'd delivered at three previous events. “About the masks we wear and the truths we hide.” The irony wasn't lost on me as I stood there, wearing my own mask of successful author, hiding the truth that I felt more disconnected with each book tour, each signing.

I shared an anecdote about my writing process that always garnered appreciative chuckles, mentioned the research I'd conducted in carefully self-deprecating terms. I acknowledged my editor's brilliance and my agent's tireless advocacy. All true statements delivered with rehearsed sincerity that felt increasingly hollow.

“But ultimately,” I concluded, reaching the part where I was supposed to sound profound, “stories remind us that we're not alone in our questioning, our searching, our longing for meaning.” I paused, allowing the weight of this observation to settle. “Thank you for allowing my words to be part of your journey.”

Every word rang false in my own ears, a script I'd borrowed from more successful authors at similar events. The applause felt like percussion accompanying a well-rehearsed performance rather than genuine connection.

As the formal portion concluded and guests returned to mingling, a young woman approached me hesitantly. Early twenties, clutching a notebook, radiating the particular nervousness of aspiring writers in the presence of published ones.

“Mr. Webb? I'm sorry to bother you. I'm in the MFA program at UW, and I just—your first novel meant so much to me. It felt so... honest.”

The sincerity in her voice made the scripted response I'd normally offer stick in my throat.

“That's very kind,” I managed.

“I was hoping—“ She faltered, then pressed on. “Do you have any advice? For finding your authentic voice as a writer?”

The question hit like a physical blow, her earnestness cracking through the veneer I'd maintained all evening.

“Write what matters to you,” I heard myself saying, “not what you think will sell. I'm still learning that lesson.”

Surprise flickered across her face at the unexpected candor. “But you've been so successful.”

“Success and satisfaction aren't always the same thing.” I gestured vaguely at the party around us. “All of this can distance you from why you started writing in the first place.”

“What about your next project? Are you writing something that matters to you now?”

The question hung between us, demanding more honesty than I'd allowed myself in years.

“I'm trying to remember how,” I admitted.

After she left, I escaped to the venue's small balcony, the Seattle skyline glittering before me like a constellation of lives I'd never live. My phone vibrated in my pocket—an email notification from an address I hadn't seen in months: Marcus Jenkins, my only high school friend who had remained in Riverton, now an English teacher there.

It's official—the position is yours if you want it. English Literature, junior and senior classes, starting mid-year. The principal was impressed with your interview and, frankly, shocked that someone with your credentials would consider Riverton High. Let me know by Friday so we can process the paperwork.

I stared at the words, feeling strangely weightless. From celebrated novelist with a Manhattan publisher to high school teacher in the town I'd fled a decade ago. A complete reversal of the trajectory I'd pursued with single-minded determination.

Yet instead of panic, I felt the first clear certainty I'd experienced in months. Perhaps years.

Inside, the party continued—literary gatekeepers and influencers whose approval I'd once desperately sought. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and rejoined them, knowing I was saying goodbye to more than just a city.

* * *

“A high school teacher?” My father's disbelief carried clearly through the video call, his Arizona tan making him look perpetually overheated. “After all your success?”

“It's still teaching literature,” I explained, keeping my tone neutral. “Just to a different audience.”

“But surely there are universities that would hire you,” my mother interjected. “With your publications, you could lecture at UW or Seattle Pacific.”

I'd positioned my laptop to hide the packed boxes behind me, knowing they would only fuel their concern. “I want to work with younger students. Before their relationship with literature calcifies into academic analysis.”

My parents exchanged a glance I recognized from childhood—their silent communication about how to handle my latest disappointing choice. I suppressed a sigh, reminded of the tense family dinners years ago when I'd announced I going for an English literature degree than go to Princeton.

“At least we've been through this before,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

My father's expression softened slightly. “You have to admit, Ethan, you've made a habit of taking unexpected turns.”

“Which have worked out,” my mother added, her initial resistance already fading. “Your father and I were just concerned back then because the legal path seemed so secure. We didn't understand your passion for literature.”

“And you proved us wrong,” my father conceded with the reluctant pride he'd developed over time. “Three published novels and solid reviews aren't nothing.”

I nodded, grateful for the reminder of how they'd eventually come around after my first career change. They'd even hosted a small reception when my debut novel was published, inviting all their friends to meet “our son, the author.” The memory gave me hope that this transition might follow a similar pattern.

“Teaching is certainly... meaningful,” my mother offered diplomatically. “Though the financial aspects seem questionable. Have you really thought this through, honey?”

The question carried echoes of similar conversations throughout my life. Have you really thought through majoring in English instead of political science? Have you really thought through pursuing writing instead of law school? Have you really thought through marrying a man?

“I've considered it carefully,” I assured her. “My savings will cover the transition, and I've kept the advance from my next book contract.”

“Will you still write?” my father asked. “Or is this about giving up because of some bad reviews?”

“James,” my mother chided softly.

“It's a fair question,” he insisted. “You've worked so hard to build this career, Ethan. Walking away seems... impulsive.”

“I'm not walking away from writing,” I said. “I'm trying to reconnect with why it matters to me. Teaching might help with that.”

My father studied me through the screen, his expression shifting from confusion to sudden comprehension. “Is this about that boy?”

The question froze me mid-sentence. My parents had known about Leo only peripherally during high school—I'd never officially come out to them until college, never brought him home, never explained the real reason I'd thrown myself so completely into escape from Riverton after graduation.

“What boy?” I asked, playing for time.

“Don't treat us like we're stupid, Ethan.” My father's tone softened slightly. “We knew you were seeing someone senior year. That East Riverton kid from debate team. Your mother found some poetry book with both your handwriting in it when we were packing up the house.”

I struggled to process this revelation—that they had known, had seen evidence of Leo and me, had simply never mentioned it in ten years.

“This isn't about Leo,” I said finally, the name feeling strange on my tongue after so long avoiding it. “It's about finding purpose again. Riverton is... complicated for me, but it's also where I first fell in love with literature. With writing.”

Neither of them looked convinced, but they didn't press further. We finished the call with surface-level details about my move, their upcoming cruise, my promise to visit Arizona for Christmas.

After disconnecting, I sat motionless before the blank screen, my father's question echoing. Is this about that boy?

No, I told myself. It couldn't be. Ten years had passed. Leo had undoubtedly moved on—perhaps left Riverton himself, built a life somewhere opportunity was greater. Even if he remained, what were the chances our paths would cross in any meaningful way?

Yet as I turned to continue packing, I couldn't dismiss the persistent whisper underneath my practical denials. The possibility that had haunted me since I'd first seen the Riverton teaching position listed: that returning might offer closure to a chapter I'd never properly finished.

* * *

Night descended outside my window as I abandoned all pretense of manuscript revisions. Instead, I hunched over my laptop, scrolling through Riverton news sites and social media groups. The digital archeology of a place I'd deliberately stopped thinking about.

The town had evolved in predictable ways. The abandoned paper mill had never been repurposed, despite periodic proposals. West Riverton had added new developments with aspirational names—Riverview Estates, Mill Creek Commons—while East Riverton remained largely unchanged. The high school had undergone renovations seven years ago, though budget cuts had recently eliminated several arts programs and two counselor positions.

Familiar surnames appeared in local news stories and community postings—families that had remained rooted across generations. The Riverton Register still published weekly, its website a mess of poorly formatted articles and intrusive local advertisements. The River Slate had flooded three springs ago, damaging several East Riverton businesses. The old railroad bridge where Leo and I had spent countless evenings had finally been demolished two years past, deemed a safety hazard after decades of neglect.

That detail hit unexpectedly hard—our place, our neutral territory, gone.

Without conscious decision, I opened a new browser tab and typed “Leo Reyes Riverton” into the search field. The results were sparse: a mention in a community newsletter thanking volunteers at St. Mary's food pantry four years ago; his name on a list of night maintenance staff at Riverton High from an old school board meeting agenda; a brief quote in a local news article about youth mentoring programs where he was identified as “guardian to three younger siblings.”

No social media profiles. No professional accomplishments. No indication he'd ever escaped the responsibilities that had anchored him to Riverton when I'd left.

I closed the laptop, disturbed by my own digital stalking and the emotions it stirred. Moving to the window, I gazed out at Seattle's skyline—the glittering evidence of ambition achieved, the view I'd once thought represented arrival at a destination worth reaching.

Now it felt like looking at a diorama, beautiful but contained, lacking the messy authenticity of real life.

From my bookshelf, I retrieved the poetry collection I'd examined earlier, opening to a page where Leo had underlined a passage and written a note in the margin:

The greatest regrets are not for what we did, but for what we never attempted.

His handwriting, neat despite the cramped space, carried his voice across the decade that separated us. I remembered the intensity in his dark eyes when he'd first read those lines aloud, how he'd related them to his mother's regrets about opportunities missed before addiction had narrowed her world.

I traced the faded pencil marks, allowing myself to acknowledge what I'd been dancing around since I'd first seen the Riverton teaching position posted: I wasn't just running away from literary success that had proven hollow. I was running toward the unresolved questions that had haunted every relationship since—the story Leo and I had begun but never properly ended.

David had been right. I'd always had one foot out the door because part of me had never fully left Riverton.