Page 105 of Faultlines

“Of course, she knows us well,” Lucy says.

“Do I even want to know?”

I drop my head onto the surface of the table. “Whatever you two have concocted, I want no part of!”

“We haven’t said a thing,” Sloane says.

“You don’t have to.”

Lucy folds her arms. “Claire.”

“This is a fascinating conversation because we’re all taking part, and nobody is introducing any new information.”

“We know you’re on leave… and you directed the drama club at our old high school for two years. The kids are panicking, the teacher who was supposed to direct just quit, and, frankly, you’re the only person I know who knows how to run a rehearsal,” Lucy says.

Sloane straightens, eyes bright. “Good, we can discuss it openly now.”

“I don’t have the emotional capacity right now to take on directing a school play. Stop looking at me like that. Why do you two seem thrilled?”

“Because ‘no’ is not your final answer,” Lucy replies.

“It is.”

Lucy hesitates before continuing. “The production opens in less than two weeks. That’s not a lot of time, and it would mean a lot to Ellie.”

“Mr. Harrington is panicking. You remember what he was like when we went to school there,” Sloane says.

“Also, not my problem.”

Sloane throws her hands in the air. “Hah! I think you’ve already thought about it.”

She has a point. I’ve been thinking about the play ever since I opened the email—not because of Brooke or Ethan, but because of Ellie.

“You know those kids are worried. Look what you’ve accomplished for Juniper House,” Lucy says.

“That’s not the same thing as directing a play.”

“No,” Sloane agrees. “It’s much harder. But children are easier than adults. They’re shorter, and you can bribe them with snacks.”

I laugh.

“Oh good. The first sign of life we’ve seen in days,” Sloane says.

“For three days, you’ve done nothing except think about Ethan,” Lucy says, her voice firm.

Across the table, even Sloane has become serious, her earlier playfulness gone. “This will help you not wallow in self-pity and give you somewhere to put your energy.”

“What if I fail?” Both women smile at my question. “What?”

“You’ve never failed at anything in your life,” Lucy states, her voice resonating with certainty.

“Good, it’s settled. Not only was it not a ‘no,’ but it was practically an application,” Sloane says.

“It was not.”

“It absolutely was.”

The possibility of focusing on something other than my own heartbreak for a few hours a day is appealing.