Page 114 of Faultlines

Then Reid decides we’ve avoided the obvious topic long enough. He leans against a newly erected wall, looking at me.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” I say.

He gives me an innocent look, a half-smile playing on his lips, before taking a long drink from his beer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Jensen nods. “He is.”

Ignoring me he turns his attention to Jensen. “How’s Claire?”

I stop working, my hammer falling silent against the wood.

“Still living above the barn. I haven’t seen her much,” Jensen replies.

“And Ellie?” Reid asks.

I speak up before Jensen can answer. “She’s not talking to me. I text her every day. Sometimes she responds.”

“What does she say?” Reid asks.

My voice comes out brittle. “Usually, one-word responses, if I’m lucky. Yesterday, I asked if she wanted to go for ice cream.” I work past the knot in my throat. “She replied no.” I grip the hammer, the wood grain pressing into my palm. “A few nights ago, when I called, she just handed the phone directly to Claire,” I continue, the words tumbling out.

Jensen sets down his drill with a soft clunk. “She’s hurt. Give her some time.”

“I think she hates me.”

“No,” both men say simultaneously.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Reid says, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder.

“She’s thirteen. Trust me, if she hated you, you’d know,” Jensen says, earning a reluctant smile from me.

“I see families after disasters every day,” he continues, “The kids who’ve given up are subdued. The angry ones? They’re still fighting. It means they still care.”

We finally finish the set by late afternoon. The three of us stand in the front row, our clothes gritty with sawdust, looking up at the stage. Wonderland stretches before us in bright colors and impossible shapes. The Queen’s court stands complete along one side of the stage, a menacing yet whimsical tableau. We simply take it all in.

“It’s good,” Jensen says.

I nod, a tightness in my chest. “It is.”

Reid scans the painted details. “You know they’re going to love it.”

“Are you going to opening night?” Jensen asks.

I think of Claire’s words. You can come to the performances. That’s been the extent of our interactions.

I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

CHAPTER FORTY

CONVERGENCE

Claire

I sidestep a student carrying an oversized flamingo croquet mallet, and nearly collide with another clutching a giant pocket watch. Backstage buzzes with nervous energy. Costumes swish past, props change hands, and voices overlap in the narrow hallways as students scramble to their places before curtain call.

I tighten my grip on the clipboard pressed against my chest and answer one question after another without breaking stride.