17. Fault Trace
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FAULT TRACE
Ethan
Claire picks Ellie up from rehearsal most nights while I stay behind to work on the set. I tell myself it’s because we’re behind schedule. But somewhere along the way, rehearsal stopped being about the set, and it’s become my favorite part of the day.
“Diner?” Brooke asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
I nod.
We make our way over to the diner, shoulders brushing as we walk. When we pass by my truck, I pause.
“Wait here a second.”
She looks at me curiously as I unlock the back door and reach behind the seat. I pull out my sketchbook. My hand hesitates for a second before I hold it out to her.
“I started sketching again. I haven’t done it in years. I wanted to show you sketches I made of rehearsals.”
As we take a seat in our usual booth, she opens the book and starts sifting through the pages. “Ethan, these are incredible.” She looks up from the page, her eyes wide. “I knew you were talented, but… these sketches are on a different level. You capture so much movement and detail from memory.”
Her praise feels incredible. “Thank you. I haven’t shown anyone my recent drawings.”
“Why not? You should be sharing these with the world.”
I shrug, unsure how to answer.
For a while, we just talk about life. I tell her about my bubbling frustration with a contractor issue. She listens while absently stirring cream into her coffee.
“That’s a lot for one day.”
“It feels like it’s been a lot for months.”
She studies me. “What else is going on?”
I stare down at the tabletop, and run my hand along the smooth surface, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling.
“I think my marriage is over, or maybe it’s been over for a while, and I just didn’t want to admit it to myself,” I say, relieved to finally say those words aloud.
“Ethan...”
“I feel like we’re more roommates than partners.”
“That has to be difficult.”
“Do you know how ridiculous I sound?”
“No.”
“I do.”
“Ethan—”
“My wife is saving abused kids, and I’m sitting here complaining because I’m lonely. Because she doesn’t have time to watch television with me anymore.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
A sympathetic look crosses her face. “That’s not what you’re saying.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. You’re being honest about feeling unhappy and lonely.”
I stare out the window into the dark parking lot for several seconds before speaking again. “I don’t think we’ll ever get back to where we were.” Once the words are out, I can’t take them back.
“Do you really think that?”
My fingers find the edge of the table. “I don’t know.” But that’s a lie. I do. Then my mouth opens, and it all spills out—Claire’s late nights at work, the way we’ve become distant. “I think… I’ve forgotten how to fight for us.”
“Do you want it to be over?”
All I can do is shrug. Her palm settles over my clenched fist, and my thumb strokes along her index finger. When she withdraws, I miss the contact.
Stepping out of the diner, I’m not ready for the evening to end. We linger by her car, and I’m acutely aware of the faint scent of her perfume. We’re standing far closer than two friends should. The only sound is a dog barking in the distance.
“Ethan, I hope you know you deserve someone who’ll put you first.”
I should step back and say goodnight, but she reaches up and touches my cheek. The gesture is small, but feels intimate.
I lean forward and press my lips to hers. I smile into the kiss when I catch the lingering hint of coffee. One hand slides to her waist while the other cups the back of her head. I pull her closer, if that’s even possible.
Her breasts press against me, and she makes a small sound in her throat, half breath and half something else, and it cuts right through me.
Then reality crashes in all at once, and I stumble backward. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay,” She steps back, then pauses with her hand on the car door. I wait, convinced she’s going to say something else, but she gets in and pulls away.
It’s nearly midnight when I pull into the driveway.
My phone shows two missed calls, one from Claire and one from Reid, in addition to a handful of text messages.
The fundraiser is a couple of days away, and I know Claire has spent the entire evening at the ranch.
I should have texted her hours ago to tell her I wasn’t going to make it to help with setup tonight.
When I walk through the front door, I find her asleep on the couch. Auction paperwork covers every inch of the coffee table, and a highlighter rests loosely in her hand.
She shifts as I stack papers into neat piles, but she doesn’t wake, and I’m grateful.
What would I say if she opened her eyes and asked about my evening?
What could I offer that wasn’t a lie, that I helped at the theater instead?
That I then spent hours at the diner with Brooke, followed by another forty minutes talking in the parking lot by our cars and kissed her. I couldn’t say any of that.
Part of me wants to wake her and tell her to go up to bed, but I’m not ready to answer the questions that might follow. I leave her there and head upstairs.
My phone rattles against the wooden nightstand.
Brooke: Made it home. Goodnight.
Without thinking, I type a reply. The response takes only seconds to send, and afterward, I lie there, the phone heavy in my hand, staring at the screen.
Goodnight
Then, for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, I delete the entire conversation.