Page 9 of The Silence Between

9

RETURN TO RIVERTON

ETHAN

T he conference room of my publisher's Manhattan office gleamed with polished surfaces and carefully arranged minimalism. Six marketing executives surrounded me, their presentations open on identical tablets, discussing my “brand trajectory” as if I were a household cleaner rather than a human being who wrote stories.

“The data indicates your reader base responds most strongly to the themes of fractured memory and unreliable narrators,” said Brendan, the marketing director, swiping through colorful graphs. “We've seen a twenty-eight percent higher engagement with these elements compared to your more experimental sections.”

I nodded mechanically, the way I'd been nodding for the past hour. For three books now, I'd been accepting these guided “creative directions,” watching my writing become an increasingly calculated product designed to maximize market share.

“For the fourth novel,” continued Amelia, head of digital strategy, “we're envisioning a natural extension of The Cartographer's Dream with the same narrative style but set in a coastal environment. Readers respond well to water imagery, and it would position well for summer release promotions.”

She slid a mock-up cover across the glossy table—another silhouetted figure against a dramatic skyline, interchangeable with my previous books. My agent, Melissa, made approving noises beside me, already mentally calculating the advance.

“Essentially the same book in a different location,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

A brief pause followed, the kind that happens when someone deviates from script.

“A natural evolution,” Brendan corrected smoothly. “Giving readers what they've come to expect from the Ethan Webb experience while introducing fresh elements.”

The Ethan Webb experience. As if I were a theme park ride, designed to provide the same carefully calibrated thrills with minor seasonal variations.

“And what exactly is that experience?” I asked, surprising myself with the question. “Because I'm not sure I recognize my own writing anymore.”

Melissa's hand settled on my arm in warning. The executives exchanged glances, professional smiles never wavering.

“Your authentic voice, of course,” said Amelia. “Just packaged for optimal market penetration.”

Something broke inside me then, a dam holding back three years of accumulated frustration.

“There's nothing authentic about this process,” I said, closing my laptop with more force than necessary. “We're not talking about literature anymore. We're talking about product development.”

“Ethan,” Melissa hissed beside me, but I continued.

“I started writing because I had something to say. Now we're just finding new ways to say the same marketable nothing.” I stood, gathering my materials. “I can't do this anymore.”

Brendan's smile tightened. “Perhaps we should take a short break.”

“No need,” I said. “I'm done.”

The meeting dissolved into awkward murmurs. Melissa followed me into the hallway, her face flushed with contained panic.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded once the conference room door closed behind us. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked to set up this meeting? Your contract obligates you to deliver a manuscript in six months!”

“I'll pay back the advance,” I said, surprising myself with the decision even as I voiced it.

“With what money? You just got divorced! You think teaching high school is going to cover Manhattan rent plus a six-figure repayment?” She lowered her voice, switching tactics. “Look, everyone has creative doubts. Take a few days, go to that writing retreat in Vermont you liked, but don't torpedo your entire career over temporary frustration.”

But it wasn't temporary. It had been building since my second novel, when I first compromised my vision to meet publishing expectations. The third book had been written almost entirely to specification, and its commercial success had only deepened my creative despair.

“I'm sorry,” I said, meaning it. Melissa had been a good agent, working within the system as it existed. “I'll send you a formal letter withdrawing from the contract.”

I walked away from her sputtering objections, finding momentary sanctuary in a bathroom stall. There, in the sterile quiet, I waited for regret or panic to hit. Instead, I felt an overwhelming relief—as though setting fire to my carefully constructed success had finally cleared space to breathe again.

I pulled out my phone and opened the email I'd been drafting and deleting for weeks:

Marcus,

I accept the teaching position. Will arrange move details immediately.

Ethan

My thumb hovered over “send” for only a moment before pressing down, committing to a future I couldn't clearly see but that had to be better than the hollow present I'd constructed.

* * *

Two weeks later, I stood amid half-packed boxes in my Seattle apartment, sorting the accumulated evidence of my literary career. Awards went into one container, professional correspondence into another destined for recycling, books into sturdy boxes labeled by genre.

In a closet bin of pre-Seattle materials, I discovered notebooks from graduate school—full of earnest writings before I'd learned to calculate market appeal. Reading random passages revealed a voice I barely recognized, raw and imperfect but alive in ways my published work had gradually ceased to be. I set these aside, suddenly protective of these artifacts from before success had reshaped my writing.

Beneath these notebooks lay a folder marked simply “Riverton,” containing high school mementos I hadn't examined in years. Debate certificates. English class essays. A newspaper clipping about our regional championship. At the bottom, a stack of pages caught my attention—handwritten on lined paper rather than printed, the penmanship not immediately familiar.

I pulled it out, recognizing it gradually as a short story draft from my senior year—one I'd written about a boy navigating his parents' expectations while harboring secret aspirations. The margins contained careful annotations in a different handwriting than mine: Leo's neat, compact script offering thoughts and questions.

“This dialogue feels true.”

“Your description here makes me see it exactly.”

“This character reminds me of your dad.”

“Your voice is strongest when you stop trying to sound literary.”

I sat on the floor, surrounded by half-packed boxes, reading not just my youthful writing but Leo's responses to it. The annotations revealed both his insightful literary understanding and the intimacy we once shared through words. He had seen me clearly, both my strengths and pretensions, in ways no MFA workshop or professional editor ever had since.

One comment in particular caught in my chest:

“You're at your best when you're honest about what scares you.”

When had I stopped being honest about what scared me? When had I stopped writing from that vulnerable place and started calculating reader response instead?

I traced Leo's handwriting with my fingertip, something fundamental shifting in my understanding of why I was returning to Riverton. It wasn't just escape from hollow success, but possible recovery of authentic creative passion that Leo had once witnessed and encouraged.

For the first time, I consciously acknowledged what had remained subtext in my decision: returning to Riverton carried hope of understanding why my writing lost its soul when I left, why relationships since had felt incomplete, whether reconnection with my past might restore what had been missing.

* * *

“So you've burned professional bridges, surrendered a high-paying career, and decided to return to a hometown you once couldn't wait to escape.” Dr. Kelley summarized our session with characteristic directness. “That covers significant life changes. How are you feeling about all this?”

I sat in her familiar office for our final appointment before my departure, sunlight filtering through bamboo blinds onto the green armchair I'd occupied weekly for the past eighteen months. Since my divorce from David, Dr. Kelley had guided me through the gradual recognition of my depression, helping me understand its roots in choices made for external validation rather than internal fulfillment.

“Terrified,” I admitted. “But not in the way that usually accompanies my decisions. It's not fear of failure or disappointing others. It's more...” I searched for the right description. “It's like standing at the edge of a high dive. You know jumping is right, but your body still revolts at the prospect.”

She nodded. “That sounds like healthy fear—the kind that accompanies authentic choice rather than obligation. Tell me more about Riverton specifically. What does it represent to you?”

The question seemed simple but opened complex terrain. “It's where I was last honest about who I was and what I wanted. Before I started constructing this version of myself that looks successful but feels empty.”

“And is that solely about your writing career? Or are there other aspects of authenticity you left behind?”

A familiar discomfort rose in my chest—the feeling that always emerged when our sessions approached the topic I'd most carefully avoided. “You're asking about Leo.”

“I'm asking about what you've mentioned obliquely in almost every session but never directly addressed,” she corrected gently. “Your decision to return to Riverton seems connected to unresolved aspects of your past. Understanding those connections might help you navigate this transition more consciously.”

I looked out the window, watching Seattle's skyline shimmer in summer heat. “I left everything unfinished. Not just with him, but with who I was then—before I started measuring my worth by external metrics.” I paused, formulating thoughts I'd never fully articulated. “When I left Riverton, I justified it as necessary ambition. The practical choice. But I think I also ran from vulnerability, from the messiness of real connection.”

“With Leo specifically?”

“With him, yes, but also with myself. It was easier to become Literary Ethan Webb, with his carefully cultivated persona and professional success, than to keep being the person who could be hurt, who could fail, who could love someone without guarantees.”

Dr. Kelley let the words settle before asking, “What scares you most about returning?”

The question pierced directly to core vulnerability. “Finding out it's too late. That I can't get back what I lost—not him specifically, but the person I was with him. The person who wrote because he had something to say, not because it would sell.”

“And if it is too late? If that version of yourself isn't recoverable in the exact form you remember?”

I considered this possibility that had haunted my preparations. “Then at least I tried. At least I didn't keep living this half-life out of fear.”

Dr. Kelley smiled slightly. “That sounds like the beginning of healing, regardless of what you find in Riverton.”

As our session concluded, she handed me a referral to a therapist in the nearest city to Riverton. “Just in case,” she said. “New beginnings, even necessary ones, rarely proceed in straight lines.”

I accepted the card, tucking it into my wallet alongside the worn photograph of Leo I'd never mentioned in our sessions but had carried for ten years—tangible reminders of both what I was leaving and what I hoped to find.

* * *

The “Welcome to Riverton” sign appeared in my headlights just past nine PM, its faded paint and slight tilt suggesting maintenance issues that mirrored the town's general economic decline. Crossing the town line felt significant—a threshold between my constructed life and the authentic one I hoped to recover.

Main Street unfolded before me, simultaneously familiar and altered. West Riverton's commercial district had attempted revitalization. But beneath these cosmetic improvements, I recognized the same fundamental layout, the same invisible boundary approaching as I neared the river that divided the town both geographically and socioeconomically.

I slowed as I approached the bridge crossing to East Riverton, memories surfacing with physical clarity—teenage Leo walking this route daily, the careful calculations we once made about where we could safely be seen together, the weight of Riverton's divisions that had ultimately proved too heavy for our relationship to bear.

Acting on impulse rather than plan, I turned onto River Road instead of crossing, following its curve to where the abandoned railroad bridge had once spanned the water. This detour wasn't on my itinerary but some magnetic pull drew me toward this specific location.

I parked in the gravel lot now marked “River Slate Overlook,” a halfhearted attempt at creating a scenic spot from abandoned industrial space. Stepping out into the humid night air, I followed the path toward where the bridge had stood.

Only it wasn't there.

Where the railroad bridge should have been stood nothing but concrete abutments. The span itself had been removed, leaving a gap between shores that mirrored the separation in my own life.

“They took it down two years ago,” came a voice from behind me. “Deemed it a safety hazard.”

I turned to find a police officer watching me with cautious curiosity, flashlight pointed at the ground rather than my face but clearly assessing whether I represented trouble.

“Just visiting,” I explained. “Used to come here as a teenager.”

His posture relaxed slightly. “Yeah, lot of kids did. Town council debated replacing it with a pedestrian bridge, but the budget wouldn't stretch. You from around here originally?”

“West Riverton,” I confirmed. “Just moved back to teach at the high school.”

“Brave man,” he chuckled, the comment carrying multiple potential meanings in a town where education funding had always been contentious. He nodded toward the missing bridge. “Sorry about your landmark. Things change, though generally not for the better around here.”

After he departed, I remained staring at the empty space above the water. The bridge's absence felt symbolic—the physical connection between sides of Riverton gone just as the connection between my past and present selves had been severed. Yet standing there, I could still access visceral memories. Leo's serious expression as he analyzed poetry, his rare laughter when I managed to break through his guardedness, the warmth of his hand in mine that first time we dared to acknowledge what existed between us.

Marcus had been deliberately vague in our correspondence, respecting privacy while confirming Leo remained in Riverton. This limited information left critical questions unanswered.

As I turned back toward my car, these unknowns weighed heavily. There was both hope and fear about potential reconnection. But standing where our bridge had once allowed us to exist between Riverton's divisions, I recognized that whatever happened, I needed to face this unfinished chapter of my life.

Some bridges, once burned, couldn't be rebuilt. But perhaps new ones might still be possible.

* * *

Early morning light streamed through the east-facing windows of classroom 237, illuminating dust particles dancing in golden beams. I'd arrived nearly two hours before first period, arranging desks in a semicircle rather than rows, unpacking boxes of books I'd selected to supplement the standard curriculum, writing my name on the whiteboard in blocked letters that felt simultaneously presumptuous and inadequate.

MR. WEBB - ENGLISH LITERATURE

The classroom smelled of industrial cleaner and ancient knowledge, that particular blend unique to educational institutions. As I moved through the space, organizing handouts and checking technology connections, I found myself repeatedly glancing toward the hallway whenever footsteps passed. Each time, my heart accelerated with the possibility that Leo might appear, though logic insisted the likelihood was minimal. Marcus had mentioned he worked night shifts, cleaning these same classrooms long after students and teachers departed.

I arranged copies of poetry collections on the front table, selecting Frost's work for the first unit. “The Road Not Taken” seemed appropriate given my current life pivot, though I planned to focus on how readers often misinterpreted its actual meaning—assuming it celebrated unconventional choices when it really explored how we construct narratives about our decisions after the fact. The irony of teaching this particular poem while attempting to rewrite my own life's narrative wasn't lost on me.

“Planning to corrupt young minds with subversive literature on day one?” Marcus's voice came from the doorway, accompanied by the aroma of fresh coffee.

He entered carrying two travel mugs, looking remarkably unchanged from our high school days except for a neatly trimmed beard and more confident posture. Where I had fled Riverton to prove myself, Marcus had stayed by choice, finding purpose teaching the same English classes that had once inspired him.

“Thought you might need reinforcements,” he said, handing me one of the mugs. “First day jitters are real, even for fancy published authors.”

“Former fancy published author,” I corrected, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Current terrified new teacher.”

Marcus settled on the edge of a desk, surveying my classroom setup with approval. “The semicircle. Bold choice. Signals discussion rather than lecture.”

“Is that a mistake? Should I go with traditional rows?”

“Not at all. Just noting your teaching philosophy is already showing.” He sipped his coffee, studying me over the rim. “How's it feel being back? Weird?”

“Surreal,” I admitted. “Like walking through a dream where everything's familiar but slightly wrong. The railroad bridge is gone.”

“Yeah, that happened a couple years back. Budget cuts hit maintenance before they hit actual programs. Safety hazard, apparently.” His tone suggested he understood the bridge's significance without requiring explanation. “How's the house working out?”

“Perfect for now,” I assured him. The small guest house behind his family's home offered privacy while I searched for a more permanent situation. “I appreciate you and Kate letting me crash until I find my own place.”

Marcus nodded, then approached the topic we'd been circling since my arrival two days ago. “So. Have you seen him yet?”

No need to specify who “him” meant.

“No,” I said, arranging papers that didn't need arranging. “And I'm not planning to seek him out immediately. That would be... intrusive.”

“But you want to see him.”

It wasn't a question, so I didn't treat it as one.

Marcus sighed. “Look, I've maintained friendships with both of you without interfering for ten years. I'm not starting now. But as someone who cares about you both...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Life hasn't been easy for him, Ethan. He never got the chances you did.”

“I know.”

“Do you? He's still raising those kids. Working multiple jobs to keep them housed and fed. Recently applied to community college classes, first time he's considered education for himself since high school.” Marcus set his coffee down. “I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. Just setting realistic expectations. The Leo you knew has been through a lot.”

The information settled heavily, confirming what I'd suspected but hadn't wanted to face directly—while I'd been collecting literary prizes and lamenting the commercial pressures of success, Leo had remained bound by the same responsibilities that had separated us initially. The contrast in our paths sharpened my awareness of privilege, of opportunities afforded by family support and financial security that I'd taken for granted.

“I'm not expecting anything,” I said finally. “I just... needed to come back. To face this unfinished chapter.”

Marcus studied me for a long moment. “Night janitors usually finish around 2 AM,” he said casually, gathering his things as the warning bell rang. “Just FYI.”

Left alone as students began filtering into the hallway, I touched the worn poetry book I'd placed on my desk—the same volume Leo and I had once shared, its pages marked with both our handwriting.

The final bell rang, students beginning to enter with curious glances at the unfamiliar teacher. I took a deep breath and stepped into my new role, aware that somewhere in this same building, hours after I finished teaching, Leo would move through these same spaces—our paths separated by time but converging toward inevitable intersection.