Page 102 of Faultlines

“We just need to stay here for a little while,” I say, my attempt at a casual tone feeling thin and false.

She stares at me, then her expression changed. “But what about Dad?”

Children notice more than we give them credit for. “What about Dad? You can call him anytime you want.”

“Because every time I mention him, your face gets all weird. Like you’re trying not to cry.” She steps closer, her shadow falling over my lap. “What did you fight about? You guys don’t ever fight.”

The simplicity of the question stings. “I’m not ready to talk about it just yet.”

She exhales. “Oh, my God.” I know that tone. I’ve been hearing it since she was eleven, and I have a feeling I’ll be hearing it until she moves out.

“You guys always do this.”

“Do what?”

“You have these adult conversations and then pretend nothing is happening.”

I can’t even argue with that.

Before I can respond, she grabs her phone. “Anyway, I need to leave in an hour. Grandpa said he’ll take me to rehearsal.”

“No.” The word is out before I can stop it, sharp and definitive.

She freezes, her hand still hovering over her phone. “What?”

“No.” My voice is firmer this time, an unyielding wall.

Confusion replaces her frustration. “No, what?”

“You’re not going to rehearsal tonight.”

For several seconds, she just looks at me, her expression blank as she processes my words. “Good one.”

“I’m serious.”

The smile disappears, as if wiped clean. “What do you mean?”

I already regret this, the weight of the decision presses down on me. “You’re staying here tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

The reaction is immediate. “Seriously?”

“Ellie—”

“No.” She throws both hands into the air. “No. Absolutely not. Opening night is in less than two weeks.”

“Ellie.”

“I have rehearsal.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just decide I don’t get to go.” She turns, storms downstairs and I hear a door slam.

A few minutes later, Lucy cautiously reappears. “Am I allowed to come back now?” she asks quietly from the doorway.