27. Structural Assessment
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
STRUCTURAL ASSESSMENT
Claire
I wipe down the kitchen counter for the third time, chasing crumbs that disappeared long ago. The clock on the microwave catches my eye.
6:42 p.m.
Ethan’s flight should have landed by now. I set the dishcloth in the sink and reach for my phone, even though I already know there aren’t any new messages. Nothing.
People go to conferences. They get busy. They don’t always have time to call or text.
I repeat the words silently, trying to believe them as I pick the dishcloth back up and wipe an already spotless counter.
But no rationalization dispels the cold dread that settles in my gut on Friday. It wasn’t one thing—it was his distracted air as he packed, the clipped, vague texts, the speed of his departure. It’s an unease that has shadowed me for three days.
The front door finally opens a little after eight o’clock with a soft click. “Hey,” he calls out.
The sound of his voice loosens something inside my chest. I feel foolish for worrying in the first place. But then he steps into the kitchen, and the feeling returns, the unease settles back in, heavier than before. He looks overwrought, not in his usual way after a work trip.
Normally, he’d be talking before he’s even fully inside the house, recounting presentations, complaining about airport food, and sharing funny stories about colleagues. Tonight, he drops his suitcase by the pantry with a dull thud and gives me a smile that dissolves almost as soon as it forms.
“How was Seattle?” I ask.
“Good.”
That’s it. Just good. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
“Did you find the conference useful?”
“Yeah.” Another short answer clipped and devoid of inflection.
I watch him move around the kitchen, the soft clink of the refrigerator door as he opens it, the gurgle of water as he grabs a bottle.
“Ellie’s already in bed, she wasn’t feeling great. I think it’s just the excitement of a weekend of sleepovers with Mona and a steady diet of junk food.” I say, trying to inject some normalcy into the strained atmosphere. “She wanted to stay up for you, but I think she was too tired.”
“Okay.”
The conversation dies again, suffocatingly. He twists the cap back onto his water bottle and glances toward the stairs, a clear signal of his desire to escape. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“That’s it?” The words escape before I can stop them, sharp and accusatory.
He stops and turns, a slight furrow appearing between his brows. “What?”
I regret the sharpness in my voice, but it’s too late. “Nothing.” The word feels inadequate.
A deeper frown appears with a weariness I can’t quite decipher. “Claire.”
I cross my arms, the fabric of my sweater tight against my skin. “Are you going to tell me about the trip?”
He goes still. “I already answered you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He looks at directly at me and it’s unsettling. “It was just the usual conference.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
I hate this feeling—like I’ve forgotten the rules of a game I’ve been playing for years and can only watch myself make the wrong moves. Most of all, I hate the growing certainty that something has changed.
“Ethan, what is going on with you lately?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Nothing.”
“You’ve been so distant lately.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“We both have, but this is different. It’s like a physical barrier between us.”
He looks away, his gaze falling to the floor. “I’m tired, Claire.” His voice drains.
“Okay.” I sigh, the fight having left me.
He nods once before turning and heading upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. A few minutes later, the distant rush of water signals the start of his shower. I remain alone in the kitchen, staring at the suitcase beside the pantry.
Without thinking, I walk over and open the suitcase to retrieve his dirty laundry. The movement is absentminded, something to occupy my hands.
As I adjust the clothes in my arms, a narrow strip of white paper, crisp and new, drifts to the floor. I bend and pick it up. It’s presumably nothing, a taxi receipt, something meaningless.
Upstairs, the water continues to run with a rhythmic drumming. A month ago, I would have tossed this slip of paper back into his suitcase without a second thought.
My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper.
At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
I stare at the slip of paper until recognition settles in.
It’s a restaurant receipt. The restaurant’s name means nothing to me; I can just make out the faded blue logo at the top.
But the Seattle address just below the logo catches my attention.
I scan the itemized charges, my eyes moving from line to line before finally stopping near the bottom. According to the receipt, the meal included two entrées, two desserts, and a bottle of wine.
I reread the receipt, hoping it will reconfigure itself into something sensible.
One entrée could have been takeout. The desserts, shared among a group.
My logical brain scrambles for explanations.
He could have been entertaining a client; he does it all the time.
But he hates those dinners, and he always complains about the expense reports.
This wasn’t on the company card. The restaurant is a waterfront place, chosen for intimacy, not for closing a deal on a municipal project.
My gaze falls to the bottom, catching a handwritten note in a looping script:
Thank you for celebrating with us.
I stare at the words, generic as they are the simple phrase coils in my gut. I think about the drawings of her in his sketchbook.
I’m being silly. This is Ethan, the man who held my hand so tightly in the doctor’s office, who walked a colicky Ellie for hours, humming off-key. This is the man I trust. Isn’t he? I shouldn’t be fabricating stories from one receipt.
The shower upstairs clicks off; the sudden silence pulls me out of my head, and I realize I’ve been gripping the receipt so hard it’s creased down the middle.
Unable to dissuade myself, I fold the receipt, the paper crisp against my fingers, and slip it into my pocket.
I step away, forcing myself to put away dishes.
He comes downstairs a few minutes later, the scent of soap precedes him. I’m casually pretending I hadn’t just been staring at a piece of paper, wondering if it’s time to stop lying to myself.
When my alarm sounds the receipt is still at the forefront of my mind. I stand beneath the hot spray of the shower and try to reason with myself. The problem is that the receipt isn’t what’s bothering me, it’s the first tangible thing I can point to after months of a gut feeling.
I finish getting ready for work knowing I need to talk this through. The only two people I trust enough to discuss this with are also the two most likely to blow this way out of proportion. At least one of them is anyway.
Even knowing that, I open our group text and type a brief message asking Lucy and Sloane to meet me for coffee at Half Baked and Happy.
Their responses arrive in a rapid succession of notifications.
Sloane: Who are we burying? Or do you need help transporting a llama?
Lucy: I’m in. I love their lavender haze latte.
Neither scenario is unfolding I assure you, and why a llama?
Sloane: Good because I’m wearing suede boots, if I need an alibi I like to be prepared. And why not a llama? They’re so cute and I woke up hoping one of you had stolen one overnight.
Lucy: Ignore her.
An hour later, I push open the door to the café and the little bell above the door jingles. I’m greeted by the familiar smell of rich coffee, and warm fresh pastries. The morning crowd has thinned enough that I have no trouble finding a table near the window.
After placing our orders, I settle into a chair just as the bell above the door jingles.
Sloane sweeps into the café, her boots clicking purposefully on the tiled floor.
Lucy follows close behind, carrying a gigantic handbag, and wearing the resigned expression of a woman who already knows this conversation is going to take an unwelcome turn.
They catch sight of me and make a beeline for my table, dragging the empty metal chairs across the floor as they sit.
Sloane wastes no time, removing her massive sunglasses, and placing them on the table with a decisive tap. “Why was I summoned before nine o’clock in the morning?”
Lucy waves her off and gives me her undivided attention.
Despite myself, a small smile tugs at my mouth. The familiar rhythm of their bickering lets me breathe a little easier. It’s been this way since we were kids. One of us is in trouble, and the other two show up—not always with advice, but always with strong, unwavering opinions.
“I have a Hot Mess Mocha, a Main Character Energy, a Lavender Haze, a Tropic Like It’s Hot, and a Scone Cold Fox,” the barista calls out.
“See? Even your breakfast thinks you make questionable decisions,” Lucy says looking at Sloane.
Sloane sticks her tongue out and heads to the counter to grab our order.
My smile fades as I remember why I asked them to meet me here. I wrap both hands around my coffee cup, take a deep breath and tell them everything. When I finish, I pull out the folded receipt placing it in the center of the table. Both women look down at it before lifting their eyes back to mine.