Page 122 of Faultlines

Ice cream.

Crackers.

A birthday card.

Three avocados.

No coffee.

Then I laugh, a sharp sound that’s a little unhinged.

She looks alarmed. “Are you okay?”

My laughter subsides into a shaky breath. “No.”

“But I will be.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

EXPOSURE

Ellie

Mom is sitting on one side of the waiting room, Dad on the other. Neither of them will look at the other.

The sharp scent of industrial cleaner hangs in the air, stinging my nose. Somewhere down the hall, a copier hums, and someone taps steadily on a keyboard.

I don’t want to be here.

Not exactly.

I don’t want them to be here.

I’ve been seeing Dr. Matthews for a few weeks now. Long enough to know which waiting room chair wobbles, that she keeps peppermint tea in the cabinet behind her desk, and that her comfortable silences don’t make me panic anymore.

Usually, it’s just me. I like to curl into the same corner of the couch in her office and complain about school, or Mona, or everyone whispering about my family.

Mom is busy filling out paperwork, her pen moving in quick, efficient strokes, the rhythmic scratch a tiny, insistent sound. Dad is pretending to read a magazine, staring at the same page for ten minutes, the glossy paper uncreased and unread in his hands.

Neither has spoken since we arrived. I sit scrolling through my phone without actually reading anything. Every few seconds, I glance up and catch them doing the same thing—looking anywhere but at each other.

It’s weird seeing them in the same room now.

Not because they’re never together. There are family dinners when Grandpa insists. They’ve gotten pretty good at what Sloane calls “hostile, cooperative parenting.”

It’s been two months since the play. Two months since I followed Sloane down that hallway and the truth came crashing down. Two months since I screamed at Brooke in front of half the town, and since I watched the mask of composure shatter on my mother’s face.

Everything feels both different and the same.

The office door opens with a click, and Dr. Matthews steps into the waiting room, wearing her usual soft grey cardigan and carrying a ceramic coffee mug that says ‘Progress, Not Perfection.’ A faint scent of peppermint wafts from it, and she smiles when she sees me.

“Hi, Ellie.”

I automatically smile back, a reflex I can’t suppress. Then her eyes move to my parents.

“Claire. Ethan.”

Mom offers a polite nod, her expression carefully neutral. Dad manages something that vaguely resembles a smile.