Page 32 of The Silence Between

“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 onThe 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 chosea 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.”

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