Page 65 of Faultlines

“What if you do?”

She studies my face, searching for a sign, a flicker of doubt. “You don’t think it’s stupid?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Her face changes—something around her eyes and mouth going soft in a way I haven’t seen before. The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest ache.

“Heidi, it’s okay to change your mind. I thought I had my whole life planned out at your age, and most of it didn’t happen. What’s important is finding what feels right for you.”

I observe her as she looks out across the pasture again, toward possibilities she hadn’t considered before. “You think I can do it?”

“I think you’re smart enough.”

She smiles, a confident curve of her lips. “I know I’m smart enough.” The confidence makes me laugh.

“I think it’s worth exploring.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

SHOCKWAVE

Ethan

The air carries the scent of fresh produce and blooming flowers as Claire, Ellie, and I wander through the farmers market. A gentle breeze ripples the green-and-white striped awnings overhead.

Ellie insists on stopping at every booth that offers free samples, her small hand eagerly reaching for a bite. Claire feigns annoyance with a playful scowl on her face, though she laughs each time Ellie sweet-talks a vendor into an extra sample.

To an outsider, we look like any other family enjoying the weekend, happy and comfortable—a family with everything figured out. But every time my phone vibrates, a jarring buzz against my thigh, my attention shifts.

While Ellie and Claire browse handmade jewelry, I step a few feet away, seeking a sliver of shade beneath a vendor’s tent, to check my screen.

Brooke sent a picture of a concrete garden frog wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. I can’t help but chuckle. A second later, another message appears, the screen brightening.

Brooke: I knew you’d appreciate this.

I type a response before I can second-guess it, my thumbs moving fast, telling myself the conversation is harmless.

When I slip my phone back into my pocket and turn around, Claire is watching me. The bright sunlight catches her hair, her expression is unreadable.

“You seem happy today,” she says, her voice soft amidst the surrounding murmurs.

I smile, a little too widely, perhaps. “Maybe I’m just happy.”

The answer sounds innocent enough, but guilt settles in my chest anyway. I tell myself I should delete the thread, block her number, do something. But then I scroll up to her last message—You actually listen to me—and the pressure shifts, becomes something else entirely. Something I keep coming back for.

The rest of the morning follows the same pattern. Each time my phone vibrates in my pocket, I check it. Each time I reply to Brooke, my fingers tapping out words, I tell myself it will be the last message. Then another arrives, the screen flickering to life. And another. By the time we get home, the front door closing with a soft thud behind us, I’ve spent more time talking to Brooke than to my wife.

Sunday isn’t any better. The air is warm and thick with humidity.

Claire spends the afternoon in the garden, and Ellie happily volunteers to help, bribed by the promise of ice cream.

I tell them I’ll join them in a few minutes, but I sit on the front porch swing, its chains creaking under my weight, scrolling through messages. Brooke tells me about a difficult theater parent; I tell her about Reid’s latest project proposal.

We exchange stories, jokes, and observations about nothing important. The conversation flows so naturally that I lose track of time, the minutes bleeding into each other.