13. Deep Fault
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DEEP FAULT
Ethan
Claire is consumed by the fundraiser, leaving me with more free time—and what I convince myself is the perfect excuse to help with the play.
The auditorium is loud tonight, and glitter coats the floor in uneven drifts.
There are paint-smeared paper cups crowding every flat surface, and at least three arguments about scissors happening simultaneously.
The backstage hallway smells of sawdust, drying paint, and the faint sweetness of the aging velvet curtains—a combination that somehow means rehearsal has begun.
Brooke is in jean shorts and a simple tank top, her hair pulled back. I’ve only seen her in professional teaching attire; this casual version feels both unexpected and distracting.
“Again, from the top,” she calls, and a collective groan, bounces off the high ceilings. “Excellent enthusiasm, everyone.” The groaning intensifies. Unperturbed, she nods. “That’s the spirit.”
I can’t help but smile. The kids adore her, and if I’m honest, I do as well. She somehow maintains authority while letting them be themselves—a balancing act I’m not sure I could pull off.
I’m holding a heavy part of a castle wall while two eighth graders, their voices rising in pitched argument, debate whether a dragon could fit through the castle gate.
Twenty years as an architect, and I’m mediating a debate on dragon-to-gate size ratios.
It’s easily the strangest meeting I’ve had all year.
“OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!”
Ellie delivers the line with a theatrical flourish. Several students and parents jump, startled by the sudden shout. She beams a triumphant smile.
It feels like yesterday she was dressing her stuffed animals in doll clothes and insisting they attend tea parties in the sun-drenched backyard. Now she’s standing on a stage, commanding an audience.
Without thinking, I pull out my phone and snap a quick picture of her—center stage in a bejeweled crown, threatening the execution of half her cast mates—to send to Claire.
I wish you could see this in person. [picture]
A few minutes pass with no response, so I slip my phone back into my pocket.
The rehearsal continues, and at one point, the Mad Hatter loses his hat not once, but twice, sending it rolling across the worn stage floor. Someone accidentally backs into part of Wonderland. A painted tree falls over. Ellie, in all her Queen of Hearts glory starts another fictional war.
Brooke somehow keeps everything moving. Watching her reminds me of Claire at Juniper House, both of them managing chaos with an invisible strength.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Claire: She looks so much like you.
During the last break of the evening, I make my way over to Brooke. “Did you do this every summer at your last school?”
She laughs. “Yes. Every June, I ask myself why I do this, and every August I swear I’ll never do it again.”
“Wait, how old are you actually? It couldn’t have been that many summers.”
“I’m 26.”
She glances around the auditorium. “My mom taught middle school English for thirty years. She thought I was crazy for adding theater to the mix.”
“Thirty years? That’s brave.”
“That’s what I used to tell her. But she loved it. I guess it just felt natural for me to follow her lead—minus the stage productions.”
Ellie bounds over to me, still wearing the oversized crown, its fake jewels glinting under the stage lights. “Dad.”
I brace myself. That tone leads nowhere inexpensive. “Yes?”
“We need a guillotine.”
“A what?”
“Just a fake one.”
“That distinction feels important.”
“It is.” She nods seriously, the heavy bedazzled crown shifting on her head. “The current design lacks dramatic impact.”
I rub my forehead. “Of course it does.”
Brooke pipes up. “To be fair, she’s not wrong.”
I look between them, eyes narrowed. “Have you two been scheming?”
“Maybe.”
“Absolutely,” Ellie answers, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
At least one of them is honest.
Reid walks into my office a few mornings later and tosses his suit jacket across a chair. “You look like you woke up shitting rainbows.”
“Do not.”
“You do.”
I glance down at my new screensaver, a picture of Ellie from our last rehearsal. He notices and clicks his tongue.
“Before you start, it’s a picture of Ellie,” I say.
“Uh huh.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I turn away before my face can betray me.
He drags a hand over his face before settling both hands on his hips. “I’m worried about you.”
I let out a long breath. “Now this I have to hear.”
“Because every story you tell me lately seems to start with Claire, but somehow ends up being about Brooke.”
“What does that even mean?”
He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. “Just don’t wait until you’ve already done something you can’t take back.”
He doesn’t look at me as he walks out.