15. Rockfall
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROCKFALL
Ethan
I unlock the office door a little after eight on Saturday morning.
The building is empty. The hallway lies in shadow, broken only by thin ribbons of morning light spilling through the front windows. On any other weekend, I’d welcome the quiet.
Today, it feels like avoidance.
I toss my keys onto my desk. The sharp clatter echoes through the empty office before fading back into silence.
Before I left the house, I scribbled Claire a note on a flimsy piece of notebook paper and left it on the kitchen counter.
My phone vibrates with a text.
Claire: Morning. I’m taking Ellie and Mona to the ranch today if you want to meet up with us.
The message is so ordinary it makes my neck burn. I lock my phone without responding, then spend the next hour trying to focus on a proposal due the following week. Every few minutes, I reread the same paragraph.
My phone buzzes again.
Claire: Still at the office?
I ignore it. The irritation from the night before hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown. I can still picture Ellie scanning the doorway during the luncheon.
Does trying even matter if you repeatedly don’t show up?
Logically, I know Claire isn’t out shopping or having lunch with friends; she’s working—helping kids who need her. The problem is that understanding her reasons doesn’t make me any less disappointed.
Around noon, my phone lights up again.
Claire: Ellie wants to know if you’ll meet us here at the ranch for dinner.
I know I’m being petty by not responding. I open another conversation.
Brooke.
I trace the outline of her name on the screen and start to type before I can talk myself out of it.
Working today?
The response comes instantly.
Brooke: Not really.
The speed of it makes me happy. That should bother me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I type back.
Want to grab lunch?
The three dots of her reply appear and disappear. For a few seconds, the office feels too quiet.
Brooke: Shouldn’t you be doing architecture things or family things?
This is architecture. Important structures require a solid foundation, and my foundation requires a sandwich.
Brooke: That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.
Maple Street Bistro. It’s in Silver Creek. Quieter.
Three dots appear then disappear like a tiny dance of indecision on the screen.
Brooke: Okay, I can meet you there at one o’clock.
Anticipation arrives in a rush, pursued by a prickle of guilt. I push both feelings aside and grab my keys.
On the twenty-minute drive to Silver Creek, the rain intensifies, blurring the world outside the windshield. It’s long enough for me to reconsider or to respond to Claire. I do none of those things.
The restaurant sits on a corner near the center of town, tucked between a bookstore and an antique shop. The clatter of cutlery and murmur of voices spill onto the wet sidewalk.
Brooke is already there, standing just inside the doors with sunglasses pushed into her hair, scrolling through her phone.
She looks up and smiles when she spots me through the streaked glass.
Something in my chest unknots itself. This feeling hits me harder than I expect.
It’s been a long time since anyone but Claire made me feel this way.
We find a booth near the back, and the red faux leather squeaks when I sit. The restaurant hums with weekend conversations—normal people doing normal things.
The conversation between us flows effortlessly. We talk about Ellie and the upcoming play, and a disastrous field trip she supervised during her first-year teaching. I laugh more than I have in a while.
Then a server appears beside the table. “What can I get for you two?”
Both of us shift back, the spell broken. I look down at the untouched menu, its laminated surface sticky beneath my fingertips.
After our order is taken, we pick up right where we left off. She tells me about a parent who accidentally locked themselves inside a school bathroom during an overnight trip. Something about the way her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunches when she laughs makes it impossible to look away.
My phone vibrates against the table. Claire’s name flashes on the screen.
I flip the phone over, silencing it. It buzzes once more against the cracked linoleum, a muffled tremor, then stops.
But I can still feel it there, a hard-edged weight on the table between us.
I push it aside with my water glass, as if that could change anything.
After we pay, we step outside into the drizzle. The air carries the scent of damp earth and honeysuckle. Couples with shopping bags, and families pushing strollers move up and down the sidewalks.
My own pulse thumps in my ears. “I should get back,” I say, gesturing toward my truck.
“You should,” she says.
I step closer to her and slide a stray hair behind her ear. She goes very still, and neither of us moves.
“We’re ridiculous,” she says.
“We’re discussing important matters.”
She laughs. “Oh?”
“Community development.”
“That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Sounds professional.”
I can’t get over how effortless standing here with her feels, like a building that finally makes sense of its site.
Then I notice a familiar-looking SUV turn onto the street. My gut clenches—is that Claire’s friend, Jennifer? But the vehicle continues past without slowing, driven by a complete stranger. The relief that washes over me is so intense it makes me feel sick.
She notices my expression. I see it register on her face. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” The lie comes quickly.
We say goodbye and head across the parking lot in different directions. I watch her drive away. Only after her car disappears around the corner do I pull out my phone. An unread message sits on the screen.
Claire: I know you’re upset with me. Can we talk tonight?
I read it twice, and I still don’t respond, and on Sunday I work in my home office all day to avoid her.
Ellie and I return home the following evening to find Claire at the kitchen table. She greets me with a tentative smile. Dinner is filled with Ellie’s voice as she tells Claire about rehearsal, and Mona’s obsession with David, the Mad Hatter.
Ellie seems happier and less hesitant around Claire. “Mom, can you help me run lines later?” I hear Ellie ask.
Claire smiles. “Absolutely.”
An hour later, the house is silent save for the distant hum of the refrigerator.
I find Ellie asleep on the couch, a script spread open in her lap.
Her breathing is soft and even. Claire sits next to her, a blanket draped over Ellie’s slight form, looking through paperwork, the rustle of pages the only sound.
“How did it go?” I ask, the words a whisper.
“Wonderful, she’s very passionate. I’m delighted to see it all come together?”
“Brooke seems to know what she’s doing. It’s fascinating to watch her with the kids.”
“She seems like a wonderful addition to the faculty, and I know Ellie and Mona adore her. I meant to tell you she contacted me, asking if I need any additional volunteers for the fundraiser.”
“That sounds like her. She doesn’t know anyone in the area, so that will be a good way for her to meet people.”
“You seem to have gotten close to her.”
“We’re friends. I’m around her every evening. You should make an effort with her.” The words feel right, a way to fold this new part of my life into the old. “I think you two would get along.”
“We need to talk about this past weekend,” she says, her voice low so as not to wake Ellie.
“I know. Ignoring your texts and avoiding you was—awful of me. I’m sorry.” The apology feels hollow even as I say it.
“I’m sorry, too. About the luncheon. I’ll do better for Ellie.” We leave it there. It feels less like a resolution and more like a pause.
I carry Ellie to bed, her small body warm and pliant against me. The house settles as Claire and I nestle under the duvet, its weight a shared solace.
The morning sun streams through my office window as I browse through my sketchbook when my phone vibrates.
Claire: So sorry, but I’ll be late tonight. Grant proposal crisis. Marisol and I have to prep for a mandatory meeting first thing Monday. Don’t worry about dinner, we’ll order something.
No worries, there’s a chance rehearsal will run late.
Claire: I’ll make it up to you. Don’t forget that Jennifer Starling is taking Ellie straight from rehearsal tonight for a sleepover with Mona.
I respond with a thumbs up eager to get back to browsing through my sketches. For a while now, I’ve had the desire to sketch again. I pick up a pencil and start drawing.
By noon, the sketchbook is nearly full. A few drawings of Ellie on stage, but then there’s Brooke. A quick drawing of her wrangling the cast. A more detailed sketch of her laughing at the bistro, the way her nose crinkled. I linger on that one, shading the curve of her smile.
I’m so engrossed in drawing that I don’t notice Reid until he sets something down on the corner of my desk and I jerk back in my chair. He’s standing in front of my desk with a curious smile. “Sandwiches?”
“Please!”
We sit in our usual spot at the Dandelion Café, surrounded by the lunchtime rush, and the familiar smell of toasted bread and melted cheese. He takes a bite of his sandwich and with his mouth still full says, “You look happy today. I haven’t seen you sketching in a long time.”
“I feel inspired lately.”
“Good. I’m amped up to see what your inspiration looks like on paper.”
“Yeah—they’re just rough drafts. Nothing to show yet,” I stammer.
He nods. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how the fundraiser is going.”
“Actually, I think it’s going smoother than Claire expected, and I can tell that all the extra help she’s receiving is a relief.”
“That’s good.”
“It is,” I reply, picking up my iced tea, the condensation cool against my fingers. “Lucy somehow convinced half the county to donate or volunteer. Even Jensen’s friend from nursing school agreed to help.”
“I’ve heard a bit about her.”
“Yeah, her name’s Victoria or Valerie.” I wave a hand. “Or something similar. She’s new to the area.”