Page 7 of Faultlines

“That’s what I said.”

“You did not.”

“No, I told Ms. Whitmore you work seventy hours a week, and your last day off was sometime during the Clinton administration.” He lets out a short laugh.

I offer a soft smile. “It feels like that some days.”

“Ellie was disappointed tonight.” All trace of humor gone from his voice.

“You don’t have to say it. I know.”

He sighs. “It’s just…it’s important to her, Claire. This program.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“This can’t keep going the way it’s going, Claire.”

“Tell that to everyone else.”

He starts to turn away, then stops. His jaw tightens, some last reserve of energy pulling him back. “No,” he says, and his voice is rough but clear. “I’m telling you. Right now. We need to⁠—”

“I’m exhausted, Ethan.”

“I know.” He drags a hand down his face, but he doesn’t close his eyes. “That’s the problem. We’re both running on nothing, and we’re still circling around it.” He sits up, the mattress shifting under his weight. “What happens when we run out of excuses, Claire? When there’s nothing left to blame and we’re just sitting there looking at each other?”

I stare at him in the dark. The question hangs between us, too large for the room, for the hour, for whatever strength we have left.

The next morning is a blur of minor disasters. Ellie’s left shoe turns up in the pantry, and Ethan’s tie is knotted all wrong—a fact he seems annoyed I noticed. By the time I make it to the kitchen counter, I’m pouring coffee I already know I won’t have time to finish.

“Mom,” Ellie calls, and I glance up. She’s leaning against the island, fidgeting with her friendship bracelets. “Did Dad tell you about the summer drama program and volunteering?”

I choke. “Morning to you too.”

She grins. “That’s not an answer.”

“I know. I don’t have an answer at the moment.”

“Mom, please.” She draws out the word, her chin tucking down the way it has since she was two.

“Honey, I want to, but I can’t commit right now.”

“Why not?”

“My plate is already overflowing.”

Ethan walks in carrying a piece of half-eaten toast. “Your mother has a point,” he tells her.

“You’re both avoiding the question.”

“We’re being realistic, Ellie,” he says. “There’s a lot to consider.”

She rolls her eyes with such practiced perfection I’m convinced it’s genetic.

“Ellie,” he says, sternly.

“It’s been so long since you’ve helped at my school,” she says.

The kitchen falls silent. Finally, Ethan steps in. “Hey,” his voice gentle. “Your mom wants to be there, and she’ll help if she can.”