Page 121 of Faultlines

“Okay,” I reply.

Then I watch him disappear into the thinning crowd toward the parking lot.

As I walk into the grocery store, I repeat in my head that I only need three things: coffee, milk, and eggs. The list is on a sticky note, folded inside my purse, which should prevent me from aimlessly wandering through Giberson’s Market and buying unnecessary items. My brain has functioned at roughly sixty percent capacity for the past few months, so I can’t guarantee anything.

This time of day is usually calm, with retirees comparing produce and parents grabbing snacks before soccer practice. The market carries the faint, earthy scent of fresh vegetables and the sweet tang of ripe fruit.

Halfway to the dairy case, Mrs. Peterson from the library asks how Ellie is, her eyes lingering with concern. In the next aisle, Mr. Alvarez offers a kind word about my dad. A woman from church waves gently from frozen foods. It’s a gauntlet of sympathy, the entire town treating me like someone recovering from a long illness.

I reach the coffee aisle and stop. I’ve always found the smell of the coffee beans soothing.

Dark roast.

Whole bean.

Something strong enough to survive the next few years.

I’m reaching for a bag when I hear my name, my hand hovering over the dark roast. I see two women at the other end of the aisle. I vaguely recognize them—one is a mother from the middle school, and I think the other works at the diner. Neither has noticed me.

“I just feel terrible for Claire.”

For one irrational second, I convince myself they’re talking about another Claire. Then I hear the response.

“I do too. But honestly, I don’t think anyone is surprised.”

The coffee feels heavy in my hand. I read the label three times—Breakfast Blend, ethically sourced, rich aroma—before I realize I haven’t absorbed a single word.

“What do you mean?” The first woman, her voice a little too loud.

“Please. Anyone with eyes could see something was going on with him and that drama teacher. They were in the diner almost every night after rehearsals, staying for hours.”

Apparently, strangers know more about my marriage than I did. The second woman lowers her voice, leaning in conspiratorially. The clatter of a dropped can in an adjacent aisle startles me.

“Still. The teacher thing was messy.”

All of it—the betrayal, the destruction of a twenty-year marriage—reduced to ‘the teacher thing.’

“I mostly feel bad for Ellie.” The first woman nods, her gaze drifting toward her cart.

The second woman agrees. “Me too.”

“I heard that the teacher skipped town the second Claire caught them.”

“That’s what Lisa said.”

I should leave, but I just stand there, pretending to compare coffee while listening to strangers discuss my life.

The conversation eventually drifts toward other school drama. My family has just been dissected beneath the harsh store lights. Now someone else’s life is worth talking about. Just another story exchanged between errands.

The affair isn’t ours anymore; it belongs to the town now.

A few minutes later, my basket creaks as I make my way to the checkout. The cashier, a young woman with a kind smile, looks up. “Did you find everything okay?”

I look down at my basket:

Milk.

Eggs.