Page 9 of Faultlines

My fingers find the smooth gold of my mother’s pendant, an automatic gesture. I trace its familiar shape, the cool metal a small anchor in the rising tension.

Across the table, Ethan notices and sets down his fork. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s all take a breath.”

“I’m breathing,” Ellie says, crossing her arms.

“Maybe with a little less attitude.”

“You used to volunteer for all of my school stuff.” The words hang in the air.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, honey.”

“Then say yes.” Her eyes lock onto mine.

I rub my temples, searching for the right words. How do I explain to a thirteen-year-old that I can’t find the floor anymore?

Before I can speak, Ethan says, “I’ll do it.”

Ellie and I both turn to look at him.

“What?” I say. Her own “What?” follows a heartbeat later.

“I’ll volunteer.” He shrugs as if it’s the simplest solution. “I can take time off.”

Ellie’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely,” he smiles. “Your mom has a lot on her plate right now, but I know she’ll be there for the important things. As for the volunteer stuff, I’ve got more flexibility these days.”

Before he can say another word, she launches herself out of her chair and wraps her arms around his neck. He hugs her back, and she beams at him as if he’s just announced a snow day on a Monday.

I make it through brushing my teeth, which feels like an achievement I shouldn’t have to be proud of. I feel as though gravity has increased, and no one bothered to tell me. I climb into bed, wanting to stretch out and turn off my brain.

“You know,” Ethan says as he settles beside me, “I don’t think this is about the drama program. She just wants more of you.”

I stare up at the ceiling, the old ghost of the large family we once planned flickering in the dark. The noisy, chaotic house we used to joke about.

“Claire?”

“I’m listening.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, and I know you’re right.”

He laughs. “What? Say that again. Wait, let me get my phone set up to record.”

“You’re ridiculous.” I nudge his shoulder.

The mattress shifts as he rolls toward me and runs a finger along my collar bone. My thoughts dissolve before I can finish them, and the soft press of his lips on my forehead is the last thing I register.

CHAPTER FOUR

BURIED FAULT

Claire

Saturday morning arrives loudly at 8:03. The front door flies open. “Morning, Bennett family!” Lucy’s voice echoes from the foyer.

“If nobody’s wearing pants, this is your final warning,” Sloane says.