Page 129 of Faultlines

He seems perfectly composed. A small smile appears beneath his beard. “What brings you here?”

The question seems simple, but it isn’t. I look toward the window. “I had an affair with my daughter’s teacher, who also directs her summer drama program.”

He doesn’t react.

“How long ago?”

“It ended a little over three months ago.”

“And your wife found out.”

I nod.

“Tell me how it started?”

“Her name is Brooke. I volunteered to build the set for my daughter’s summer drama program. She was a teacher at the school and the director of the production. We’d crossed paths a few times that spring at school events before we really started talking.”

I pause thinking back to the first time I met Brooke at Ellie’s awards program.

“I was attracted to her almost immediately. We started spending more and more time together. I found excuses to stay after rehearsals, and eventually... I crossed a line.”

I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“Did you fall in love with Brooke?”

“No! I just—I don’t know. I thought I had feelings for her.”

“If Brooke had never existed, would your marriage have been healthy?”

“No. But I also wouldn’t have cheated.”

“Those can both be true. What will make these sessions worth your time?”

“I want my wife back,” I say, with urgency.

“That’s not something you can control or something I can fix for you.” He continues, his voice calm. “You can control your own actions—your honesty, your choices. You can’t control how she responds. The only part of this you can fix is you.”

Afterwards, I sit in my truck staring through the windshield contemplating his final words.

You spent a lot of time talking about what you lost. At some point, you’re going to have to decide who you want to become.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

FOUNDATION REPAIR

Claire

The familiar scent of air freshener greets me the moment I step through the front doors of Juniper House. The Christmas tree in the lobby still leans slightly to the left. Holiday cards crowd the bulletin board by the entrance, and somewhere down the hall, I hear laughter followed by the muffled slam of a bedroom door.

Nothing has changed.

Except me.

“Look who finally rejoined society.”

I look up to find Marisol standing in the doorway of my office, silhouetted against the brighter hallway. She clutches a travel mug in one hand and holds a stack of folders in the other.

“I was only gone a few months.”