Page 60 of Faultlines

A little while later, I watch her cross the room into the bathroom, her long hair falling down her back like a silken curtain that sways with her steps. I hear the faint click of the light switch, and then the soft rush of water as she turns on the tap.

An hour later, showered and back home, I pull back the covers. The mattress sighs under my weight as the cool sheets offer fleeting comfort. Claire faces the other wall, her breathing even, a sliver of moonlight illuminating the curve of her shoulder. The space between us feels wider than the mattress itself—a chasm I carved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LOCKED FAULT

Claire

My phone buzzes catching my attention as it vibrates against the polished wood of my desk.

Sloane: Don’t ignore this.

Attached is a phone number.

What is this?

The response comes almost instantly.

Sloane: The doctor I told you about.

That narrows it down.

Three dots appear, pulsing on the screen. Then⁠—

Sloane: The one I told you about regarding the perimenopause symptoms you’re having.

Then I recall what she’s referring to. Not that long ago, I made the mistake of mentioning that my sleep has become terrible. Then I admitted the hot flashes, the mood swings, and the brain fog. Apparently, she’s been paying more attention than I realize.

I’m fine.

Sloane: That’s what every woman says before she commits murder.

I laugh louder than I intend.

Sloane: Seriously, Claire, call her.

I don’t have time.

Sloane: You just finished the biggest project of your career. You have all the time. Just call.

My career of eighteen months?

Sloane: Yeah, because before that you were just wandering the countryside, gathering berries for elaborate hobbies.

I let the display go dark before waking it again, the number still waiting for me. I’m forty-five. My symptoms aren’t a surprise, just a reality I haven’t wanted to face. Before I talk myself out of it, I save the number and tap Call.

Three days later, I’m sitting in the waiting room.

The office is nothing like I expected. Instead of feeling clinical and sterile, it’s warm, and calming. A woman at the reception desk smiles as I check in. “First visit?”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“Only because everyone has a similar look their first appointment,” she says with a bright smile.

That somehow makes me feel better. I settle into a chair and glance around. A few minutes later, a nurse calling my name appears in the doorway.

The questions come one after another. Sleep? Erratic. Energy? Gone. Hot flashes? Yes. With each answer, I feel a piece of a puzzle clicking into place, forming a picture I’ve refused to see. I’ve been calling it ‘stress’ or ‘getting older,’ but laid out like this, it feels like something else entirely.