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Miles from Where We Started

By Cynthia Ruchti

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"Traveling. It leaves you speechless,
then turns you into a storyteller."
-Ibn Battuta

CHAPTER ONE


"You can't bail on me, Nathan."

Mallory Duncan looked up from her laptop. The unfinished spreadsheet wouldn't walk out on her. It would wait. She watched as the vein on her husband's forehead-normally hidden by one or two of the random dark curls that first drew her curiosity-pulsed its displeasure with what he heard on the phone.

"This can't happen." Connor gripped his cell phone with one hand and drove the other into the countertop. Ever the gentleman, he didn't pound. He ground his fist, as if smashing roasted garlic into a smooth paste.

What can't happen? Mallory kept her fingers on the keyboard, but listened for clues. She would have crossed the room to where he stood and wrapped her arms around him from behind. She would have laid her head on his broad back and crossed her hands over his chest as a sign of solidarity for whatever Connor's best friend and "boss"-as Connor teasingly termed him-was or was not doing.

She would have embraced her husband…if it hadn't been for last week's conversation. If it hadn't been for the words that changed their trajectory. Couples on the verge of separation don't declare their solidarity.

This can't happen. The words belonged plastered on the exit door of their marriage. She'd said it to him, to the mirror, to the voice inside her head that insisted love was enough to overcome any first-year obstacles. Now, Connor used the same words with Nathan.

"No! No. This can't happen. You have to get an excused absence or something. Nathan, come on!"

Connor glanced at her, then turned his back and walked deeper into the kitchen. A 700 square-foot apartment doesn't allow for a lot of privacy. Who would have thought two people who were still officially newlyweds for four more weeks-until their one-year anniversary-would need private space? Need an apartment with separate bedrooms. Need to separate.

The familiar hollowness swelled, compressing her lungs and heart. She sat up straighter. It didn't improve her breathing. She sipped her tea. Tepid. Big help.

The spreadsheet on her laptop screen stared at her with its neat lines and tidy edges. Columns. Rows. Sensible. Logical. The antithesis of their home life. Nothing fit between the lines. Nothing made sense anymore. If they separated, the columns would fall into line again, wouldn't they? Mallory and Connor simply needed time apart to sort it out. Six months at the most.

They were grownups. Among the most grown up of their millennial friends. They could do this amicably. Refocus. Deal with a few of their personal issues. Six months. Reset. Wipe the hard drive clean and start over. From the way Connor had been talking, six months was more like a hoop a couple jumps through so they could legitimately say they'd tried everything.

Her phone pinged. Her verse-of-the-day app. It would ping again in a half hour if she didn't open it. She tapped the app, then tapped it shut. Months ago that on/off habit made her feel guilty. She waited for guilt's nudge. It never came.

Mallory set the phone on the coffee table and headed toward the kitchen with her mug of lukewarm tea. How sensible of them to decide Mallory should retain the apartment, since she worked from home most of the week when she wasn't needed on site as director of the Hope Street Youth Center.

If Nathan agreed to let Connor temporarily set up housekeeping in the empty studio apartment above the Troyer & Duncan marketing firm, that would save his commute. The men had counted on rental income to help offset their company start-up costs. Could Troyer & Duncan hold out for six months without it if Connor camped in the studio?

The first month didn't count, since the upstairs level of the building still boasted unpainted drywall. The remodeling couldn't get done any sooner, since Connor and Nathan's dream client-RoadRave-needed all that video footage of the three-week cross-country trip for their ad campaign.

The first few weeks of their separation wouldn't be the distance across town but miles. And miles.

Three weeks of pre-separation practice. Sounded horrible. But she could make far more progress on her literacy campaign for the youth center if she could work nights too without the constant communication collapses. Lately, it was as if the entire apartment were floored with eggshells. Every attempt at a cohesive thought derailed. When he was on the road with Nathan…

She slid around Connor's still-tensed body and pointed to the microwave in the corner. He nodded and gave her room. Maybe they wouldn't have to tell anyone they were separated until Connor and Nathan returned from the trip. So far, no one knew. Not even the people closest to them. They were that good at acting, at preserving appearances.

Can't bail on me. Excused absence.

What?

"This is the end of it, then," Connor said into the phone. "I don't understand how the courts have the right to do this to us. Or why your civic duty principles seem more important than our keeping the business going. You know we can't survive without the RoadRave account. Nathan, it was our game-changing break."

They lost the account?

Connor leaned his backside against the kitchen island. "Yeah, yeah. Patriotism. American values. I get it. I do. You're not telling me something I don't know." He picked a black grape from the bowl of fruit in the center of the island, but rolled it around in his fingers rather than eating it. "Man, this could not have come at a worse time."

Mallory felt an inexplicable urge to scroll back and read the verse-of-the-day she'd ignored every half hour since breakfast ten hours ago. But she stayed rooted to her spot in front of the microwave.

Connor slid his phone-hockey puck style-across the counter and pressed his fingertips into his skull, face scrunched.

"What happened?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. Did he hesitate because he no longer thought she had a right to know?

"Jury duty. Nathan has to report for jury duty Monday morning." He uncrossed his arms and let them flap against his sides. "We were supposed to receive the RoadRave delivery day after tomorrow and head out Sunday morning. It's all set. Everything. Except we're missing half of the two-man team. One small but vital detail." He growled and popped the fidgeted grape into his mouth.

Her chest registered the blow as if it had happened to her, not him. Isn't that how it was supposed to be in a marriage? And here she stood with no advice that would help in any- Wait.

"Connor, Nathan doesn't have to serve on a jury if he's a small business owner, does he? If his business depends on him?"

Mallory's hair stylist had once begged off the responsibility, without argument, for that reason.
Connor swallowed harder than necessary for an already pulverized grape. "Says he can't, with a clear conscience. And because it would send the wrong message to RoadRave." He laced his fingers behind his neck, brow still creased. "You know what sticklers they've been about family-friendly, all-American, patriotism, get-this-country-back-to-its-small-town-roots agenda. If Nathan shirks his 'civic duty,' we're likely to lose the account anyway."

"Do they have to know?" Had she really suggested that?

Connor glared at her, then softened his look. "It's the principle of the thing. In Nathan's mind, anyway. He's crippled by a triple-threat. His own convictions. RoadRave's expectations. And his gut feeling that it's what God wants him to do." Connor sighed and turned his head, the cords in his neck taut and pulsing. "We don't call him faithtimistic for nothing."

Mallory cringed. "Can you reschedule the trip?"

"No." He ripped another grape from its stem. "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound harsh. The pre-staging is already set. PR schedules don't bend that easily. You don't know this business, Mallory."

"I'm not an imbecile, Connor."

"Why do you have to take everything so personally?" He grabbed his phone and left her choking on secondhand anger.

And there it was. The completely dysfunctional communication method that had brought them to an impasse in their relationship. Bridge Out. No Access. Within a few short sentences, she could trace the path that had led them to the only conclusion they agreed on: This would never work. Marriage can't be built on a rapid-fire volley of reasons to apologize.

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