24. Shockwave
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SHOCKWAVE
Ethan
The air carries the scent of fresh produce and blooming flowers as Claire, Ellie, and I wander through the farmers market. A gentle breeze ripples the green-and-white striped awnings overhead.
Ellie insists on stopping at every booth that offers free samples, her small hand eagerly reaching for a bite. Claire feigns annoyance with a playful scowl on her face, though she laughs each time Ellie sweet-talks a vendor into an extra sample.
To an outsider, we look like any other family enjoying the weekend, happy and comfortable—a family with everything figured out. But every time my phone vibrates, a jarring buzz against my thigh, my attention shifts.
While Ellie and Claire browse handmade jewelry, I step a few feet away, seeking a sliver of shade beneath a vendor’s tent, to check my screen.
Brooke sent a picture of a concrete garden frog wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. I can’t help but chuckle. A second later, another message appears, the screen brightening.
Brooke: I knew you’d appreciate this.
I type a response before I can second-guess it, my thumbs moving fast, telling myself the conversation is harmless.
When I slip my phone back into my pocket and turn around, Claire is watching me. The bright sunlight catches her hair, her expression is unreadable.
“You seem happy today,” she says, her voice soft amidst the surrounding murmurs.
I smile, a little too widely, perhaps. “Maybe I’m just happy.”
The answer sounds innocent enough, but guilt settles in my chest anyway.
I tell myself I should delete the thread, block her number, do something.
But then I scroll up to her last message—You actually listen to me—and the pressure shifts, becomes something else entirely. Something I keep coming back for.
The rest of the morning follows the same pattern.
Each time my phone vibrates in my pocket, I check it.
Each time I reply to Brooke, my fingers tapping out words, I tell myself it will be the last message.
Then another arrives, the screen flickering to life.
And another. By the time we get home, the front door closing with a soft thud behind us, I’ve spent more time talking to Brooke than to my wife.
Sunday isn’t any better. The air is warm and thick with humidity.
Claire spends the afternoon in the garden, and Ellie happily volunteers to help, bribed by the promise of ice cream.
I tell them I’ll join them in a few minutes, but I sit on the front porch swing, its chains creaking under my weight, scrolling through messages. Brooke tells me about a difficult theater parent; I tell her about Reid’s latest project proposal.
We exchange stories, jokes, and observations about nothing important. The conversation flows so naturally that I lose track of time, the minutes bleeding into each other.
Eventually, Ellie appears in the doorway with her arms crossed, her small shadow stretching long across the floorboards. “Mom wants to know if you’re helping or hiding.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Those are my only choices?”
She nods seriously, her brow furrowed. “Those were her exact words.”
When I glance toward the garden, Claire is kneeling beside a flower bed, her hands in the rich earth. Even from a distance, I can see the smile on her face, bright and unguarded. Something settles in my chest at the sight of it, a dull pressure I haven’t earned the right to feel.
I know where I should be, out there beside her, feeling the warm sun on my skin and the soil beneath my fingers. Instead, I remain where I am, the porch swing swaying with my stillness.
That evening, after Ellie retreats upstairs, Claire curls up beside me on the couch.
In the dim lamplight, things feel easy again.
She rests her head against my shoulder, the scent of her shampoo a familiar comfort, and I wrap an arm around her, pulling her closer as we watch the muted flicker of the television.
Then my phone vibrates on the coffee table. My eyes flick toward it, drawn by the sound. She lifts her head from my shoulder. “Who keeps texting you?”
The question is casual, but my stomach knots anyway. “It’s work. A difficult client for this new project we just received.”
“Work seems chatty lately.”
“People don’t respect weekends.”
Her gaze lingers on me, one brow arching ever so slightly.
The realization follows me through the upcoming week.
Every night after rehearsal, I stay late.
Sometimes there is actual work to do. Opening night approaches in less than a month, demanding prop organization, set piece completion, and problem resolution.
The work rarely takes as long as I claim.
A thirty-minute task turns into an hour.
An hour becomes a visit to Brooke’s apartment.
Mid-week, Claire is waiting for me when I get home. The microwave clock glows after eleven. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in front of her, wisps of steam still curling from its rim. “You’re later than usual tonight.”
“We have a lot to finish,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than I intend.
She studies me, her gaze unwavering. “Every night?”
I set my keys on the counter, but I’ve misjudged the edge, and they skitter across the granite. “It’s almost opening night.”
“I know.” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug. “It just feels like you’re gone all the time lately.”
A prickle of unease spreads through me, and I become defensive, my words a shield. “I’m not gone all the time, but something is always wrong, isn’t it? I’m just trying to help with this play, same as you do with everything in your life.” My voice rises, a harsh edge to it.
Confusion flashes across her face. “Ethan, I’m just telling you I miss you.”
I hadn’t meant to lash out. But her questions kept landing just short of the thing I was hiding, each one a little closer than the last.
“You know how theater works,” I say, my voice tight.
“I do.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“I wasn’t trying to start an argument.”
I should apologize, but I let her question her instincts because it’s easier than admitting the truth.
Later that night, lying in bed next to a sleeping Claire, my phone lights up with a message from Brooke. The brief, bright rectangle of light in the oppressive darkness of the room.
Brooke: I miss you.
Three simple words stare back at me from the screen.
Claire has one arm thrown over her eyes the way she always sleeps. I can hear her breathing from where I lay, slow and even, while my own pulse ticks fast in my throat.
On Monday afternoon, I pull up the conference website. The speakers are legitimate, the continuing education credits are real. If someone looks closely, they’ll find nothing suspicious about my registration. It’s the perfect cover, and I pick up my phone.
I texted Brooke—
What are you doing this weekend?
Brooke: I’m going to need a little more context.
Come with me to Seattle. I’m going to a conference.
The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren, its sound fading like a bad dream. No response appears. I felt a prickle of sweat on my forehead.
Brooke?
Brooke: I saw your message.
Then say something.
Brooke: Are you out of your mind?
Probably.
The response takes so long that I check twice to make sure the message actually sent. Then the three dots appear, stop, appear again. I set the phone face-down, pick it up again immediately.
Brooke: You’re not making this easy.
I read her words and a silent plea forms in my mind.
Neither are you.
A nearby clock measures every agonizing second waiting for a response. Finally—
Brooke: Let me think about it.
That’s not a no.
All day, I smile, a strange, almost manic grin that feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
I leave the office that evening, the automatic doors hissing shut behind me.
I’ve registered, booked the hotel, and mapped the drive.
Each step, each click on the keyboard, should make me reconsider what I’m doing, but every completed reservation makes the trip feel more inevitable, each one a door swinging shut behind me.
When I walk through the front door, the familiar scent of garlic and roasted vegetables hits me. Claire looks up when I enter the kitchen. “How was your day?”
“Busy.” My voice sounds flat, even to my own ears.
I pour myself a glass of water, the ice clinking. I take a long swallow while searching for the right words to begin.
“There is something I wanted to talk to you about,” I finally say.
She gives me her full attention, setting down her pen. “Okay.”
“There’s an architecture conference in Seattle this coming weekend.”
She looks surprised, a slight frown creasing her brow. “You want to go?”
I fight to keep my voice even. “It just seems like a good opportunity.”
She shrugs, a slight gesture. “You usually complain about conferences. You make them sound like a chore.”
I force a smile, but the muscles in my jaw feel tight. “This one is interesting.”
“What about the set?”
“There’s still time to get it done.”
“Okay.”
I lay out the details of the conference, weaving a story from legitimate workshops and seminars I found online. The lie is seamless, professional, and everything I say is technically true.
When I finish, she nods, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Honestly, it sounds good for you.”
I’m thrown by her immediate acceptance. “Really?”
“Of course.” Her voice is warm. “You’ve been working nonstop for months. If this is something you need, go.”
The trust in her voice should be enough for me to change my mind. Instead, I smile and nod. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about me being gone for the weekend.”
She laughs, a clear, ringing sound. “Ethan, you’ve been gone every night for the last month. At least this is work-related.”
I mention the conference to Reid while we’re reviewing plans for the Mercer Development project, blueprints rustling between us.
“Hey, that architecture conference in Seattle this coming weekend? I signed up.”
That gets his attention. His chair creaks under his weight, his expression unreadable. “You voluntarily signed up for a conference?”
“Yes.”
He squints at me, a hint of playful suspicion in his expression. “Did you lose a bet? There’s no other reason you’d sign up for a conference.”
“Hilarious.”
“No, seriously. You hate conferences.”
“I don’t hate conferences.”
He’s right. I’ve spent years complaining about conferences, networking events, hotel ballrooms, and awkward small talk. The sudden shift is noticeable, and judging by the look on Reid’s face, he’s noticed it.
“This one looks interesting,” I say.
He studies me for several seconds. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s clearly something.”
He shrugs, a slight shift of his shoulders. “I just find it surprising.”
I become defensive, a knot tightening in my stomach. “Maybe I’m just trying something different.”
“Sure.” He searches my face before giving a single nod that feels more like a verdict than agreement.
That night, after Claire falls asleep, I sit alone, staring at my phone. The room is dark except for the small rectangle of light in my hand.
For days, I’ve been building this cover story. On my desk is the conference brochure. My inbox contains the hotel confirmation. The route is mapped out. Each lie is plausible on its own, but stacked together, they have a dangerous weight.
Her name waits beneath my thumb, daring me to decide. For several seconds, I stare at it, the letters shimmering.
Before, the lies were small, improvised, almost accidental.
I told myself I was just responding to circumstances, not steering them.
But this weekend—booking the room, clearing my calendar, rehearsing what I’d say to Claire—required planning.
Intention. I’m not drifting into something anymore; I’m already there.
Finally, I type a message.
Have you decided?
I lean back against the headboard, the cool wood pressing against my scalp. I stare at the message for a long time, before typing again.
I want you to go with me.
I don’t wait for her response before I continue—
We’ll walk where no one knows us, eat terrible room-service, and pretend life is simple just for one weekend.
After a long silence, three dots appear, disappear, appear again—
Brooke: Okay.