Page 31 of Faultlines

I’m afraid to ask what qualifications are required for that position.

Brooke: Patience and a willingness to be yelled at by thirteen-year-olds wearing crowns. Thanks for saving us from building a structurally unsound castle.

You’re welcome, but don’t thank me yet, you haven’t received my bill.

Brooke: The drama club budget is six dollars and a Costco muffin.

That’s a competitive offer.

Brooke: Question—Can your architecture superpowers help us figure out how to keep the giant playing card backdrop from falling on children?

A month ago, I would have read these messages aloud to Claire while she brushed her teeth, her laughter muffled around the toothbrush. Now I read them in the dark, the phone’s glow the only light, and I don’t think to tell her.

Probably.

Brooke: Excellent. We like to avoid lawsuits.

Smart goal.

Brooke: One of my better qualities.

By the end of the week, the emails transition solely to texts, and the logistics feel more personal than they should.

One Thursday at rehearsal, Brooke appears beside me as I adjust a piece of the castle set. She gestures toward Ellie. “I’m impressed with her; she’s very good at this.”

Pride swells in my chest. “She is.”

“She’s also stubborn.”

I laugh. “That, too.”

“She’s been talking about you a lot.”

The comment surprises me. “Good things?”

“She lights up when you’re here.” She turns from the stage, lifting her chin to meet my gaze. “You’re such a good dad. It’s nice to see.”

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Well, I like to think I have a little star power left.”

She holds her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “Just a little.” Then she winks at me and walks off.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SEISMIC RETROFIT

Claire

A knock sounds at my office door. “Come in,” I hear myself say absentmindedly. The door swings open, and I know something is wrong. Lucy and Sloane stand there together—at eleven o’clock on a weekday morning. Neither of them should be here, which means they’ve either committed a minor crime or are plotting one.

Historically speaking, the odds are about fifty-fifty. Lucy should be teaching lessons, and Sloane should be charming strangers into buying things they don’t need. However, they’re both standing in my office with a look that says they’re about to interfere in someone else’s life—and I have a suspicion it’s mine. They’re carrying coffee from my favorite local coffee shop, Vine and Bean, so I know they’re plotting something. I give them a raised eyebrow.

“What?” they ask in unison, feigning innocence.

“Whenever the two of you show up together, my life gets more complicated.”

Lucy laughs. “I should be offended.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” Sloane says, her smile unwavering.