Page 87 of Faultlines

She looks down at the tile floor.

“You seem like you’re trying to figure out how to say something.”

A flush creeps into her cheeks. “Oh, no. It’s nothing.”

“O-kay…”

“Honestly, it’s probably harmless. The theater parent volunteers have been talking... saying Ethan and Ms. Whitmore seem... close.”

She rushes on before I can respond.

“I don’t mean inappropriate. Just... friendly.”

I force a smile, my fingers tightening around the shopping cart handle, the plastic suddenly cold beneath my grip.

She studies me, concern etched across her face. “I almost kept it to myself. I just figured... if it were my husband, I’d want someone to tell me people were talking.”

Somewhere over the store intercom, an employee announces a register has opened, their voice tinny. The sound feels disconnected from the conversation we’re having, like a faint radio signal from another world.

She offers me a sympathetic smile. “I’m probably making something out of nothing.”

A few weeks ago, I would have laughed off the suggestion without a second thought. As she pushes her cart toward the next aisle, I stand motionless.

The drive home is a relentless loop of Jennifer’s words. Each time I convince myself she said nothing alarming, the look on her face resurfaces.

The kitchen is filled with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs. I’m chopping vegetables at the counter, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board. Cooking has never been a favorite task, but tonight I need something repetitive for my hands, a physical act to tether me to the present.

The front door opens, followed by a sharp slam that rattles the glass in the storm door. The familiar clatter of keys hits the small table in the hall.

“Hey,” Ethan calls, his voice sending a jolt of alarm through me.

“In the kitchen.”

He drops his briefcase with a thud and leans in to kiss my cheek. Then he pulls away and heads for the refrigerator. The unfamiliar trace of vanilla lingers just long enough for me to notice before it disappears, along with his interest in me.

Dinner is pleasant. Outside, a gentle rain begins to patter against the windowpanes. Ellie spends most of the meal talking about rehearsal, the White Rabbit’s ongoing incompetence, and her firm belief that the Queen of Hearts deserves significantly more stage time.

Ethan and I laugh in all the right places. For thirty minutes, we feel like a family again. It’s only after Ellie disappears upstairs that the tension returns. The dishwasher hums, a mechanical heartbeat in the silence, as Ethan helps clear the table. I dry my hands on a dish towel and decide to stop overthinking.

“Tell me more about Seattle. I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”

He pauses, only for a second, but I catch it—a tightening around his mouth. The rain outside picks up, drumming a rhythm on the roof.

“What about it?”

I keep my tone light, a practiced buoyancy. “You haven’t told me much about it.”

He shrugs, a gesture that seems to dismiss not just the trip, but me.

“It was just a conference.” There it is again, the same non-answer.

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.”

I start putting away dishes, focusing on the sharp clink of porcelain against porcelain. “What was your favorite part?”

His eyes dart to mine and a smooth mask slides into place. “There wasn’t a favorite part.”

“Did you at least get to enjoy the city?”