Page 140 of Faultlines

As though sensing my presence, he glances down and freezes, then carefully climbs down from the ladder and sets his tools aside.

“Claire.”

I cross my arms. “What are you doing here?” The question sounds ridiculous, yet I need to ask.

He glances toward the ceiling. “The tiles are damaged.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Understanding flickers across his face. “The building needed repairs.”

“Marisol says you’ve been doing this for months.”

“Yeah.”

I raise an eyebrow in question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His smile disappears. Something vulnerable appears in his expression. “Because it needed to be done.”

I continue staring at him, and he finally shrugs.

“I know the budget here is tight. The girls deserve better than broken furniture and leaking sinks.” If he had wanted recognition, he would have made sure I knew months ago. “And because this place is important to you.”

He shifts his weight, shuffling his worn work boots. “There is actually something I want to ask you.” He takes a slow breath. “I want you to come to counseling with me.”

A humorless laugh escapes me.

“Claire, please.”

“No.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

That’s when I see the reflection of his wedding ring. I’m surprised he’s still wearing it. The gold is scratched near the bottom—a mark I recall from the summer before Ellie began kindergarten. He’d been helping my dad repair a fence at the ranch and came home furious, having gouged it on a nail. I had laughed then, telling him nobody would notice. Now, I can’t stop staring at it.

I look up, only then realizing he’d never stopped talking.

“I’m not asking you to come home or to make any decisions about us.”

I tighten my arms across my chest, waiting.

“I just want you to hear what I’ve been working on.”

I look up, my eyes finding a crack in the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

BEDROCK

Claire

When I step inside Lucy and Jensen’s, a soft glow spills from the windows, and laughter drifts from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of pots.

Lucy stands at the island, chopping vegetables in a steady rhythm. Sloane occupies her usual stool with a glass of wine in hand, and no intention of helping with anything productive. Both women look up as I enter, and judging by their expressions, they know something is bothering me.

Lucy sets down her knife, the blade reflecting the overhead light. “What happened?”