Page 75 of Faultlines

He stops and turns, a slight furrow appearing between his brows. “What?”

I regret the sharpness in my voice, but it’s too late. “Nothing.” The word feels inadequate.

A deeper frown appears with a weariness I can’t quite decipher. “Claire.”

I cross my arms, the fabric of my sweater tight against my skin. “Are you going to tell me about the trip?”

He goes still. “I already answered you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

He looks at directly at me and it’s unsettling. “It was just the usual conference.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

I hate this feeling—like I’ve forgotten the rules of a game I’ve been playing for years and can only watch myself make the wrong moves. Most of all, I hate the growing certainty that something has changed.

“Ethan, what is going on with you lately?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been so distant lately.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“We both have, but this is different. It’s like a physical barrier between us.”

He looks away, his gaze falling to the floor. “I’m tired, Claire.” His voice drains.

“Okay.” I sigh, the fight having left me.

He nods once before turning and heading upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. A few minutes later, the distant rush of water signals the start of his shower. I remain alone in the kitchen, staring at the suitcase beside the pantry.

Without thinking, I walk over and open the suitcase to retrieve his dirty laundry. The movement is absentminded, something to occupy my hands.

As I adjust the clothes in my arms, a narrow strip of white paper, crisp and new, drifts to the floor. I bend and pick it up. It’s presumably nothing, a taxi receipt, something meaningless.

Upstairs, the water continues to run with a rhythmic drumming. A month ago, I would have tossed this slip of paper back into his suitcase without a second thought.

My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper. At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. I stare at the slip of paper until recognition settles in. It’s a restaurant receipt. The restaurant’s name means nothing to me; I can just make out the faded blue logo at the top. But the Seattle address just below the logo catches my attention.

I scan the itemized charges, my eyes moving from line to line before finally stopping near the bottom. According to the receipt, the meal included two entrées, two desserts, and a bottle of wine.

I reread the receipt, hoping it will reconfigure itself into something sensible. One entrée could have been takeout. The desserts, shared among a group. My logical brain scrambles for explanations. He could have been entertaining a client; he does it all the time. But he hates those dinners, and he always complains about the expense reports. This wasn’t on the company card. The restaurant is a waterfront place, chosen for intimacy, not for closing a deal on a municipal project.

My gaze falls to the bottom, catching a handwritten note in a looping script:

Thank you for celebrating with us.

I stare at the words, generic as they are the simple phrase coils in my gut. I think about the drawings of her in his sketchbook.

I’m being silly. This is Ethan, the man who held my hand so tightly in the doctor’s office, who walked a colicky Ellie for hours, humming off-key. This is the man I trust. Isn’t he? I shouldn’t be fabricating stories from one receipt.

The shower upstairs clicks off; the sudden silence pulls me out of my head, and I realize I’ve been gripping the receipt so hard it’s creased down the middle. Unable to dissuade myself, I fold the receipt, the paper crisp against my fingers, and slip it into my pocket. I step away, forcing myself to put away dishes.

He comes downstairs a few minutes later, the scent of soap precedes him. I’m casually pretending I hadn’t just been staring at a piece of paper, wondering if it’s time to stop lying to myself.

When my alarm sounds the receipt is still at the forefront of my mind. I stand beneath the hot spray of the shower and try to reason with myself. The problem is that the receipt isn’t what’s bothering me, it’s the first tangible thing I can point to after months of a gut feeling.