Page 74 of Faultlines

The afternoon disappears as we wander Pike Place Market to the scent of food and flowers. At every vendor booth, her curiosity is a bright, uncomplicated thing I want to borrow. She samples honey from a vendor who reminds me of Claire’s aunt, a thought I push away. The joy on her face is a sharp contrast to the knot of deceit in my chest.

“You bought that because the woman selling it is nice,” I tease.

She clutches the bag to her chest, a hint of defensiveness in her eyes. “I bought it because it looks delicious.”

The conversation continues for half a block, and by the end, we’re both laughing. There are no responsibilities, no schedules, no obligations—no reminders of real life. I feel lighter than I have any right to. We take a cab across the city for a late dinner on the water before calling it a day.

The rest of the weekend unwinds much the same way. By eleven-fifteen on Sunday morning, the soft whir of her zipper breaks the comfortable silence of the hotel room. I carry her bag to the door, needing something to do with my hands.

We ride the elevator in silence. The lobby is bright and ordinary—marble floors that gleam and the clatter of luggage wheels.

“Okay,” she says, her voice a little softer than usual.

“Okay,” I reply. The single word feels heavy and final.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

STRUCTURAL ASSESSMENT

Claire

I wipe down the kitchen counter for the third time, chasing crumbs that disappeared long ago. The clock on the microwave catches my eye.

6:42 p.m.

Ethan’s flight should have landed by now. I set the dishcloth in the sink and reach for my phone, even though I already know there aren’t any new messages. Nothing.

People go to conferences. They get busy. They don’t always have time to call or text.

I repeat the words silently, trying to believe them as I pick the dishcloth back up and wipe an already spotless counter.

But no rationalization dispels the cold dread that settles in my gut on Friday. It wasn’t one thing—it was his distracted air as he packed, the clipped, vague texts, the speed of his departure. It’s an unease that has shadowed me for three days.

The front door finally opens a little after eight o’clock with a soft click. “Hey,” he calls out.

The sound of his voice loosens something inside my chest. I feel foolish for worrying in the first place. But then he steps into the kitchen, and the feeling returns, the unease settles back in, heavier than before. He looks overwrought, not in his usual way after a work trip.

Normally, he’d be talking before he’s even fully inside the house, recounting presentations, complaining about airport food, and sharing funny stories about colleagues. Tonight, he drops his suitcase by the pantry with a dull thud and gives me a smile that dissolves almost as soon as it forms.

“How was Seattle?” I ask.

“Good.”

That’s it. Just good. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“Did you find the conference useful?”

“Yeah.” Another short answer clipped and devoid of inflection.

I watch him move around the kitchen, the soft clink of the refrigerator door as he opens it, the gurgle of water as he grabs a bottle.

“Ellie’s already in bed, she wasn’t feeling great. I think it’s just the excitement of a weekend of sleepovers with Mona and a steady diet of junk food.” I say, trying to inject some normalcy into the strained atmosphere. “She wanted to stay up for you, but I think she was too tired.”

“Okay.”

The conversation dies again, suffocatingly. He twists the cap back onto his water bottle and glances toward the stairs, a clear signal of his desire to escape. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“That’s it?” The words escape before I can stop them, sharp and accusatory.