Page 32 of Faultlines

They both enter my office anyway; boundaries have never existed between the three of us. Lucy sets a coffee in front of me as Sloane closes the office door. Definitely plotting.

“So…” I say, “what have you both done?”

Lucy smiles. “Nothing yet.” That phrase is deeply concerning.

Sloane searches through her oversized bag, pulls out a folder, and slides it across my desk. I look at it, then at them, then back at the folder.

“Open it,” Lucy replies, rocking forward on her heels.

“Just look,” Sloane says with a trace of annoyance.

Reluctantly, I open the folder. Inside are pages—messy, coffee-stained, some handwritten in Sloane’s cramped scrawl, others in Lucy’s bubbly print.

Event ideas crossed out and rewritten. A vendor estimate with a big red question mark. A sponsorship tier labeled “pipe dream???” I thumb through the rest of the pages.

“What have you done?” I ask.

“We designed a fundraiser,” Lucy says.

“A fundraiser,” I repeat.

“A big fundraiser,” she corrects.

“A huge fundraiser,” Sloane says. She can’t resist making everything sound bigger.

I look up from the pages scattered on my desk. “What kind of fundraiser?”

Lucy leans forward and points to a page. “The Juniper House Charity Horse Show and Summer Gala.”

She’s looking at me with a huge smile, waiting for an enthusiastic reply. “What? I can’t believe you planned an entire event for Juniper House.”

“Conceptually,” I hear Sloane say as I continue to stare at the folder’s contents.

“You made charts?”

Lucy hums, and I continue as if talking to myself. “Complete with spreadsheets and color-coded tabs—multiple tabs.”

Sloane points at the folder. “To be fair, I repeatedly suggested fewer tabs.”

Lucy scoffs. “You suggested glitter.”

“Glitter solves morale problems.” We all dissolve into giggles.

I’m trying not to tear up as Sloane continues. “Before you say no⁠—”

“I’m not saying no,” I cut her off, my voice cracking.

“Before you finish saying no.”

I glare at her.

Unbothered, she continues, “We’re not starting from scratch. The horse show already exists.”

The annual Summer Classic at Willow Creek Equestrian Center attracts competitors from all over Northern California. Hundreds of spectators and vendors, sponsors, families, and money. Lots of money. Slowly, despite myself, I process. “Okay, I’m listening,” I tell them.

Lucy’s excitement intensifies. Sloane rolls her eyes, then, to my surprise, spends the next twenty minutes explaining logistics. She covers not just vague ideas, but specific sponsorship tiers, vendor revenue projections, and even a media outreach strategy for adding a charity gala to the event. For several minutes, I stare at her. Underneath all the jokes and sarcasm, she’s thought this through.

She looks up and catches me staring. “What?”