Page 66 of Faultlines
Eventually, Ellie appears in the doorway with her arms crossed, her small shadow stretching long across the floorboards. “Mom wants to know if you’re helping or hiding.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Those are my only choices?”
She nods seriously, her brow furrowed. “Those were her exact words.”
When I glance toward the garden, Claire is kneeling beside a flower bed, her hands in the rich earth. Even from a distance, I can see the smile on her face, bright and unguarded. Something settles in my chest at the sight of it, a dull pressure I haven’t earned the right to feel.
I know where I should be, out there beside her, feeling the warm sun on my skin and the soil beneath my fingers. Instead, I remain where I am, the porch swing swaying with my stillness.
That evening, after Ellie retreats upstairs, Claire curls up beside me on the couch. In the dim lamplight, things feel easy again. She rests her head against my shoulder, the scent of her shampoo a familiar comfort, and I wrap an arm around her, pulling her closer as we watch the muted flicker of the television.
Then my phone vibrates on the coffee table. My eyes flick toward it, drawn by the sound. She lifts her head from my shoulder. “Who keeps texting you?”
The question is casual, but my stomach knots anyway. “It’s work. A difficult client for this new project we just received.”
“Work seems chatty lately.”
“People don’t respect weekends.”
Her gaze lingers on me, one brow arching ever so slightly. The realization follows me through the upcoming week. Every night after rehearsal, I stay late. Sometimes there is actual work to do. Opening night approaches in less than a month, demanding prop organization, set piece completion, and problem resolution. The work rarely takes as long as I claim. A thirty-minute task turns into an hour. An hour becomes a visit to Brooke’s apartment.
Mid-week, Claire is waiting for me when I get home. The microwave clock glows after eleven. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in front of her, wisps of steam still curling from its rim. “You’re later than usual tonight.”
“We have a lot to finish,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than I intend.
She studies me, her gaze unwavering. “Every night?”
I set my keys on the counter, but I’ve misjudged the edge, and they skitter across the granite. “It’s almost opening night.”
“I know.” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug. “It just feels like you’re gone all the time lately.”
A prickle of unease spreads through me, and I become defensive, my words a shield. “I’m not gone all the time, but something is always wrong, isn’t it? I’m just trying to help with this play, same as you do with everything in your life.” My voice rises, a harsh edge to it.
Confusion flashes across her face. “Ethan, I’m just telling you I miss you.”
I hadn’t meant to lash out. But her questions kept landing just short of the thing I was hiding, each one a little closer than the last.
“You know how theater works,” I say, my voice tight.
“I do.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“I wasn’t trying to start an argument.”
I should apologize, but I let her question her instincts because it’s easier than admitting the truth.
Later that night, lying in bed next to a sleeping Claire, my phone lights up with a message from Brooke. The brief, bright rectangle of light in the oppressive darkness of the room.
Brooke: I miss you.
Three simple words stare back at me from the screen.
Claire has one arm thrown over her eyes the way she always sleeps. I can hear her breathing from where I lay, slow and even, while my own pulse ticks fast in my throat.
On Monday afternoon, I pull up the conference website. The speakers are legitimate, the continuing education credits are real. If someone looks closely, they’ll find nothing suspicious about my registration. It’s the perfect cover, and I pick up my phone.
I texted Brooke—
