Page 35 of The Silence Between

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 descendedoutside 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.

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