Page 46 of Faultlines

Dark pickup.

I tell myself it’s just a coincidence. There are only so many ways out of this neighborhood.

I turn right. The truck turns right. I tell myself not to be ridiculous.

Left at the next light. The truck follows.

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. By the third turn, my pulse has climbed high enough that I can hear it.

If it’s following me...

Don’t drive home.

My phone is beside me in the cupholder, maybe I should call for help, but what would I even say? A truck is behind me? The thought feels absurd. I glance in the mirror again. The truck keeps a normal distance. Never speeding up or falling back.

Almost...

Patient.

I decide to test it. Instead of taking my usual route, I turn into the grocery store parking lot. The truck slows. For one suspended heartbeat, I think it’s turning in too. Instead, it continues straight through the intersection.

Gone.

I sit there gripping the steering wheel long after the taillights disappear, and eventually I laugh.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FAULT TRACE

Ethan

Claire picks Ellie up from rehearsal most nights while I stay behind to work on the set. I tell myself it’s because we’re behind schedule. But somewhere along the way, rehearsal stopped being about the set, and it’s become my favorite part of the day.

“Diner?” Brooke asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

I nod.

We make our way over to the diner, shoulders brushing as we walk. When we pass by my truck, I pause.

“Wait here a second.”

She looks at me curiously as I unlock the back door and reach behind the seat. I pull out my sketchbook. My hand hesitates for a second before I hold it out to her.

“I started sketching again. I haven’t done it in years. I wanted to show you sketches I made of rehearsals.”

As we take a seat in our usual booth, she opens the book and starts sifting through the pages. “Ethan, these are incredible.” She looks up from the page, her eyes wide. “I knew you were talented, but… these sketches are on a different level. You capture so much movement and detail from memory.”

Her praise feels incredible. “Thank you. I haven’t shown anyone my recent drawings.”

“Why not? You should be sharing these with the world.”

I shrug, unsure how to answer.

For a while, we just talk about life. I tell her about my bubbling frustration with a contractor issue. She listens while absently stirring cream into her coffee.

“That’s a lot for one day.”

“It feels like it’s been a lot for months.”