Sierra
The silence in this apartment doesn’t hum; it rings. It bites into the edges of my thoughts until the only thing I can hear is the frantic, uneven rhythm of my own heart. I’m sitting at the small, laminate kitchen table, a piece of furniture that feels as temporary as my presence here, with my hands wrapped around a mug of tea. The ceramic is cold, the liquid inside a dark, stagnant pool. I can’t remember the last time I actually took a sip, but the weight of it in my palms gives me something to anchor myself to. Without it, I’m afraid I’ll simply float away, unmoored and invisible, into the sterile white of these walls.
This apartment smells wrong. I never realized how much of my life with Jace was spent fighting off the real world with a bottle ofbleach and expensive candles. My mother’s voice was always in my head, reminding me that a home should smell like cedar and fresh laundry—never like 'living.' I’d spent so much time making sure our place smelled like a magazine spread just so I wouldn't have to hear about it if they came over for dinner.
Now, without the scented sprays and the constant cleaning, the stale air in here makes me feel like I’m finally seeing the cracks in the floorboards. This rental smells like industrial lemon cleaner and the ghost of a thousand previous tenants who were likely just as lost as I am. Underneath the citrus is something damp and old, a reminder that this space doesn’t care if I stay or go.
The light is different, too. In our old place, I knew exactly how to work with what we had. I’d spend my afternoons adjusting the curtains so the sun hit the floor just right, masking the scuffs in the wood and making everything look more intentional than it actually was. Here, the light is blue and unapologetic. It filters through cheap Venetian blinds that rattle every time the heater kicks on with a mechanical groan. It bounces off the linoleum and the white-washed walls, making me feel exposed—like a specimen under a microscope, waiting for a verdict I already know is coming.
I stand up, my joints feeling stiff, and move toward the refrigerator. At 6:00 PM, I should be getting dinner for the two of us. Which really meant just me. I should be searing scallops or tossing an arugula salad with a vinaigrette. I open the fridge door, and the light that spills out is even colder than the room. Inside, there’s a half-empty carton of almond milk, a jar of artisanal pickles Jace liked that I bought out of habit, and a single, wilted head of lettuce.
I stare at the shelves for a long minute, waiting for an appetite that never comes. I realize, with a sharp pang of vertigo, that I don't actually know what I want to eat. I know what Jace likes. I know what my mother deems ‘appropriate for a woman of my stature.’ Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. But Sierra? Sierra is empty. I reach for the pickles, then pull my hand back. I don't even like pickles. I only bought them because they were what he liked.
I close the door and lean my forehead against the cool, white plastic. I’m a stranger in my own skin.
I try to make myself useful. I grab a rag from the counter, one of the few things I brought from the house, and start wiping down the table. It’s a mindless, repetitive motion. Back and forth. Back and forth. And my mind drifts to the kitchen I left behind. I can almost feel Jace standing behind me at the marble island, his heat radiating through my blouse. I can hear the click of his wedding ring against a wine glass as he pours us a drink we’ll barely touch.
We were so good at the choreography of a happy marriage. We knew exactly how to move around each other in a kitchen I spent too much time scrubbing. It was a space defined by coasters and immediate wipedowns—a place where nothing was ever allowed to look 'used' for more than five minutes. Here, the countertops are stained with the rings of a dozen people who lived here before me, and there’s no amount of lemon cleaner that can scrub away the feeling that I’ve finally slipped up.
I stop wiping. The table is clean, but the feeling of being a ghost remains.
On the counter, tucked next to a toaster I haven’t even plugged in yet, lie the divorce papers.
The edges are slightly curled from where my fingers held them earlier. I’ve been staring at them for three hours, waiting for the rush of relief the movies always promise. I expected to feel light, to feel like a bird released from a cage. Instead, I feel like the floor has been pulled out from under me and I’m still waiting to hit the ground.
Looking at those papers doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like a funeral.
I’m not mourning Jace. That’s the most shameful realization of all, the one I keep buried under layers ofcomposedandfine. I’m not mourning the man who had been my husband for the past year, the man who had been my safety net when the world felt too loud. I’m mourning the woman I spent all this time pretending to be.
I’m mourning the girl who smiles at the right country club events, the daughter who wears the pearls her mother picks out because they make her look ‘respectable,’ the wife who keeps the silver polished and the secrets buried deep enough that they won't stain the rug. I built a cage out of the right choices, and Jace was the gold-plated lock that kept me inside. One of my own choosing.
My phone vibrates on the table, the sharpbuzz-buzzcutting through the ringing silence. I don’t even have to look at the screen to feel the familiar tightening in my chest. It’s a specificrhythm. Persistent. Demanding. A ring tone I chose so I would know exactly who was calling.
My Mother.
I let it ring. One. Two. Three times. I stare at her name on my phone, the letters feeling like a set of handcuffs. On the fourth ring, the silence of the apartment feels more threatening than her voice, so I slide the bar to answer.
“Sierra, darling,” she begins, her voice like a sharpened blade dipped in honey. “I called your house because you didn’t answer your cell. Jace said you weren’t there. He sounded… strained. Is everything alright? You know how important the fundraiser is this weekend, and I haven't seen your name on the RSVP list yet.”
I close my eyes, leaning my forehead into my free hand. The weight of the lie is so heavy I can barely breathe. “I’m not coming, Mother.”
There is a beat of silence on the other end. It’s the kind of silence she uses to let you know you’ve made a mistake. “Don’t be ridiculous. You and Jace are helping represent the family on the donors' committee. People expect to see you there. If you don’t show, people will talk. They’re already whispering about why you haven't been seen at the club lately. Appearance is everything, Sierra. You of all people should know that.”
Appearance is everything.The Carter family motto. Not happiness and not the truth. Just the way the light hits the silver.
“I moved out,” I say, the words feeling like stones falling out of my mouth. “Jace and I are already divorced. The papers are already signed.”
The silence this time is longer. Cold. When she speaks again, the honey is gone. “You will do no such thing. You will go back to that house, you will fix whatever trivial disagreement you’ve had, and you will uphold your end of the life we expect from you. Jace is a good man. He is a stable man. Do you have any idea what this looks like? We’ve spent so long presenting you and Jace as the gold standard. Our name is attached to yours, and you’ve just made us look like fools. Did you even think about the fallout for us?”
“I’m almost thirty years old,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “And I don’t recognize my own life. I don’t even know what color I like, Mother, because you told me eggshell was more ‘stately.’ I’m done living a life that was only ever meant to look good from the outside—I’m done with the performance.”
“You’re being hysterical, Sierra,” she snaps. “You’re throwing away your life for a whim. Think about your father. Think about the humiliation this will cause. Call me when you’ve regained your senses. And Sierra? Posture. Even through the phone, I can tell you’re slouching. This is a lapse in judgment, nothing more. You will find a way to fix this.”
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone away from my ear, staring at the black screen. I’m not slouching. I’m upright, my back as straight as a board, a habit so ingrained it’s become part of my skeleton. I want tothrow the phone across the room. I want to scream until the cheap walls of this rental crack.
Instead, I’m sucked backward, the blue light of the kitchen fading into the blinding, white-hot memory of my wedding day.
