Page 17 of Faultlines

“An afternoon here and there.”

Brooke laughs. “That’s adorable.”

I have a feeling I’m already looking for a reason to say yes. “I’m not sure if you’re teasing me.”

“Oh, I never joke about theater.” She slides a calendar across the table, her finger tapping a series of dates. “Set construction here, dress rehearsal here, and of course, the performances.” Her smile is bright and unwavering. I realize she’s exceptional at this—dangerously good.

“Wait, when did I agree to help build sets?”

“You haven’t, officially.”

“Good,” I exhale.

“Yet,” she smirks.

I raise my eyebrows. “That word concerns me.”

“You’re an architect,” she reminds me with a laugh.

“That doesn’t mean⁠—”

“You literally design buildings for a living.”

“Buildings are not theatrical castles,” I say, scanning the list she put in front of me.

“They’re surprisingly similar.”

“They’re nothing alike.”

“Practically connected.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It would mean a lot to Ellie. And I promise I’m fun to hang out with.” She tilts her head. “Unless you’re one of those people who have forgotten how.” She knows exactly which buttons to push.

Catching the twinkle in her eyes, I know she’s won. I sigh.

“I think I dislike you.” I smirk.

“Most parents do initially,” she says.

By the time she’s done, I’ve somehow agreed to not just build sets. I’ve also agreed to consult on stage design and be on hand for ‘technical emergencies.’ She’d pointed to a line item for ‘parent volunteer lead’ and said, ‘Ellie would be so proud,’ and I just... nodded.

It’s impossible to say no to her, but if I’m honest, I don’t want to. There’s something almost embarrassing about how much I want to do it again when I make her smile.

She looks up at me as she gathers her papers. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For being easily manipulated?”

“For showing up. Ellie is an incredibly lucky girl to have you.” Then she hesitates. “Actually—if we’re coordinating schedules, it might be easier if we exchange phone numbers and emails.”

This is the sort of thing parents and teachers do every day, I tell myself. A strange sense of crossing a line flickers through me, a feeling I can’t quite name.

“There,” she says as she hands my phone back. “If anything changes with the program, I’ll let you know. And if you remember you hate children and theater, it’s too late.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Good to know.”

A knock interrupts us, and the counselor appears. “Ellie’s ready.”