Page 125 of Faultlines

He walks into the room, and studies the sketches spread across the table. “I leave you unsupervised for one weekend, and you hand creative control of the firm over to a thirteen-year-old.”

“You should be thanking me. I almost volunteered your office instead of mine.”

He picks up one of Ellie’s drawings and pretends to critique it. “This appears to be a complete renovation plan.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“There are notes.”

“She’s thorough.”

“There are color palettes.”

I sip my coffee. “She gets that from Claire. I’m just happy I got her to talk to me.”

“There are budget recommendations.”

I wince. “Okay, that part might be my fault.”

He laughs, dropping the sketch onto the table. “The scary thing is that some of these ideas are actually decent.”

I can’t help smiling. “I know. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

Just a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t spend ten minutes in the same room with me. This weekend, I found her on the phone with my receptionist, reading off a list of paint swatches she’d pulled from my desk and arguing—loudly—that beige was ‘a crime against walls.’ The kid has opinions, delivered with the conviction of a seasoned professional.

“She’s going to be an architect,” he says.

“She’s thirteen.”

“Exactly. She’s already bossing grown adults around.”

“That’s not architecture. That’s being a Bennett.”

“Same thing.”

The conversation settles into familiar territory. Then Reid studies me for a second too long, his gaze thoughtful, and he pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Before I can react, he drops it onto the slick, polished surface of the conference room table.

I glare at it.

“Ethan. At least think about it.”

I already know it’s the name of another therapist. For months, Reid has been collecting recommendations like baseball cards, each a fresh assault on my carefully constructed denial.

“I thought we were done with this.”

“We are not done with this.”

“I’m fine.”

His skeptical look is almost offensive. His eyebrows are arched so high they could cast a shadow on his forehead. “You’re miserable.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You stare out your office window like a widower in a nineteenth-century novel, waiting for a ghostly carriage to appear in the fog.”

I tip my head toward the ceiling before looking back at him, but he continues undeterred.

“Half the staff are afraid to ask how you’re doing. They’re convinced you’ll start reciting poetry about heartbreak with a dramatic sigh and a faraway stare.”