11. Tremor
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TREMOR
Ethan
I should be reviewing the construction documents on my desk, but instead I’m being held hostage by my family’s group text. I decide to turn on ‘Do Not Disturb’ before another video, meme, or unnecessary commentary from Sloane appears. Just as I tap the settings icon, an email pops up.
From: Brooke Whitmore
To: Ethan Bennett
Subject: URGENT—Monarchy Structural Failure
Hi Ethan,
A question from the costume committee: Does the Queen of Hearts’ armor count as a structural issue requiring an architect’s consultation if it falls apart during Act Two? Asking for a friend .
Supreme Overlord of Theatrical Chaos,
Brooke Whitmore
Official Queen of Hearts Handler
Professional Solver of Costume Emergencies
I can’t help but laugh. An email about collapsing costume armor feels refreshing.
Reid stops in my doorway, eyebrows arched. “What’s funny?”
I set the phone down. “Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “That was a suspiciously fast response.”
“Just an email from the school.”
“That’s somehow more suspicious. I don’t remember emails from my school to my parents being funny.”
“It’s from Ellie’s drama teacher.”
“Ah,” he replies, then pauses.
“So, this drama teacher… what’s she like?”
“You’re forty-seven.” I throw a pen at him, and he catches it with ease.
“It’s about the costumes for the play. Rehearsals start this week.”
“And what do you have to do with costumes? You’re an architect, or do they have you sewing now?”
“Funny. I’m on set construction. We’ve just been messaging about the play. She keeps assigning me tasks—I’m basically her assistant director at this point.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You imply plenty.”
The messages continue over the next few days, a steady stream of drama-club madness. Each one takes less than thirty seconds to answer, a harmless distraction. That’s the excuse I use, anyway, as I check my phone more often.
Brooke: This is an official communication from the Office of the Minister of Drama. We are currently experiencing a severe shortage of giant playing cards.
I’m afraid to ask what qualifications are required for that position.
Brooke: Patience and a willingness to be yelled at by thirteen-year-olds wearing crowns. Thanks for saving us from building a structurally unsound castle.
You’re welcome, but don’t thank me yet, you haven’t received my bill.
Brooke: The drama club budget is six dollars and a Costco muffin.
That’s a competitive offer.
Brooke: Question—Can your architecture superpowers help us figure out how to keep the giant playing card backdrop from falling on children?
A month ago, I would have read these messages aloud to Claire while she brushed her teeth, her laughter muffled around the toothbrush. Now I read them in the dark, the phone’s glow the only light, and I don’t think to tell her.
Probably.
Brooke: Excellent. We like to avoid lawsuits.
Smart goal.
Brooke: One of my better qualities.
By the end of the week, the emails transition solely to texts, and the logistics feel more personal than they should.
One Thursday at rehearsal, Brooke appears beside me as I adjust a piece of the castle set. She gestures toward Ellie. “I’m impressed with her; she’s very good at this.”
Pride swells in my chest. “She is.”
“She’s also stubborn.”
I laugh. “That, too.”
“She’s been talking about you a lot.”
The comment surprises me. “Good things?”
“She lights up when you’re here.” She turns from the stage, lifting her chin to meet my gaze. “You’re such a good dad. It’s nice to see.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Well, I like to think I have a little star power left.”
She holds her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “Just a little.” Then she winks at me and walks off.