Page 33 of The Silence Between

“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 partyoccupied 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 lovedThe 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.”

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