31. Stress Concentration
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
STRESS CONCENTRATION
Claire
The shopping cart veers slightly to the left, its front wheel squeaking with every turn as I push it down the pasta aisle. I stop in front of the shelves and pick up a jar of marinara, turning it over without really reading the label.
Quiet conversations drift through the aisles, punctuated by the steady beep of checkout scanners. It’s ordinary enough that, for a little while, I almost forget everything else.
Almost.
“Claire?”
I freeze, the cool glass still in my hand, and turn to find Jennifer Starling standing at the end of the aisle pushing a cart laden with groceries.
“Jennifer. Hi.”
Mona’s mother offers me a smile, but it seems oddly tentative, and I sense a flicker of hesitation. We exchange the usual pleasantries, the conversation unfolding like a well-rehearsed script.
How have you been?
How’s work?
How’s Ellie?
The conversation is normal, the steady hum of the grocery store fading into the background, but something feels off, and I can’t quite pinpoint what. She keeps glancing at her shopping cart, then back at me, as though debating whether to say something.
Finally, clearing her throat.
“How’s Ethan doing?”
“He’s good.”
She nods slowly while shifting her weight, her jacket rustling softly. “He’s been helping with the drama program a lot, hasn’t he?”
“He’s volunteered quite a bit this summer.”
She forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’ve noticed. I think that’s wonderful. The kids seem to love having him around.”
“Ellie certainly does.”
“Of course.”
There it is again—that hesitation. I set the pasta jars back on the shelf. “Jennifer?”
She looks down at the tile floor.
“You seem like you’re trying to figure out how to say something.”
A flush creeps into her cheeks. “Oh, no. It’s nothing.”
“O-kay…”
“Honestly, it’s probably harmless. The theater parent volunteers have been talking... saying Ethan and Ms. Whitmore seem... close.”
She rushes on before I can respond.
“I don’t mean inappropriate. Just... friendly.”
I force a smile, my fingers tightening around the shopping cart handle, the plastic suddenly cold beneath my grip.
She studies me, concern etched across her face. “I almost kept it to myself. I just figured... if it were my husband, I’d want someone to tell me people were talking.”
Somewhere over the store intercom, an employee announces a register has opened, their voice tinny. The sound feels disconnected from the conversation we’re having, like a faint radio signal from another world.
She offers me a sympathetic smile. “I’m probably making something out of nothing.”
A few weeks ago, I would have laughed off the suggestion without a second thought. As she pushes her cart toward the next aisle, I stand motionless.
The drive home is a relentless loop of Jennifer’s words. Each time I convince myself she said nothing alarming, the look on her face resurfaces.
The kitchen is filled with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs.
I’m chopping vegetables at the counter, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board.
Cooking has never been a favorite task, but tonight I need something repetitive for my hands, a physical act to tether me to the present.
The front door opens, followed by a sharp slam that rattles the glass in the storm door. The familiar clatter of keys hits the small table in the hall.
“Hey,” Ethan calls, his voice sending a jolt of alarm through me.
“In the kitchen.”
He drops his briefcase with a thud and leans in to kiss my cheek. Then he pulls away and heads for the refrigerator. The unfamiliar trace of vanilla lingers just long enough for me to notice before it disappears, along with his interest in me.
Dinner is pleasant. Outside, a gentle rain begins to patter against the windowpanes. Ellie spends most of the meal talking about rehearsal, the White Rabbit’s ongoing incompetence, and her firm belief that the Queen of Hearts deserves significantly more stage time.
Ethan and I laugh in all the right places.
For thirty minutes, we feel like a family again.
It’s only after Ellie disappears upstairs that the tension returns.
The dishwasher hums, a mechanical heartbeat in the silence, as Ethan helps clear the table.
I dry my hands on a dish towel and decide to stop overthinking.
“Tell me more about Seattle. I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”
He pauses, only for a second, but I catch it—a tightening around his mouth. The rain outside picks up, drumming a rhythm on the roof.
“What about it?”
I keep my tone light, a practiced buoyancy. “You haven’t told me much about it.”
He shrugs, a gesture that seems to dismiss not just the trip, but me.
“It was just a conference.” There it is again, the same non-answer.
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.”
I start putting away dishes, focusing on the sharp clink of porcelain against porcelain. “What was your favorite part?”
His eyes dart to mine and a smooth mask slides into place. “There wasn’t a favorite part.”
“Did you at least get to enjoy the city?”
“A little.”
“What did you do Saturday night?” The question leaves my mouth before I’ve decided to ask it, unplanned and too loud.
“Saturday night?”
I nod. “Wasn’t there some kind of conference dinner? I saw it mentioned in the brochure you printed out.” The lie comes so smoothly it almost scares me.
“Yeah.”
The rain outside intensifies into a steady downpour.
“How was it? I hope they fed you something good. I fondly remember the food last time we visited.”
He avoids my gaze. “Fine.”
“What did they serve? If there wasn’t sourdough bread, the trip wasn’t even worth it.”
His answer comes too quickly, too practiced.
“It was at the restaurant attached to the hotel. I don’t remember what I ordered.”
I grip the edge of the counter, the cold granite biting into my palms. Because now I know.
Thank you for celebrating with us.
The words flash before my eyes, blue pen against a white background.
“What is this? An interrogation?” he asks.
I force a smile. “Just making conversation.”
He can’t remember what he ate four days ago. This is the man who can recall the name of a waiter from an anniversary dinner a decade ago. The exact shade of blue of the dress I wore to a party fifteen years back.
“You seem different lately.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you seem distracted.”
“I’m busy.”
The reaction tells me I’ve hit a nerve. “I just feel like you’ve pulled away.”
“Claire, not everything is a problem you have to fix.” His voice is patronizing.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re seeing distance between us that doesn’t exist. I just think you’re under a lot of stress.” He closes the distance between us, his footsteps soft on the hardwood floor, and tilts my chin up to look at him. “Claire.” His voice softens. “You need a day to yourself.”
I hate how badly I want him to be right.
“Nothing is going on that should concern you.” He kisses my forehead and turns to walk away.
Before he gets too far, I remember I need to tell him about tomorrow night. “Lucy, Sloane, and I are having a girls’ night tomorrow.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The smile vanishes, leaving his expression guarded again.
“We’re just getting dinner and staying out later than we should. Lucy is going to drive us, so I’ll just crash at the ranch.”
“You could use a night out.”
The comment is supportive, but it somehow makes me sad. A year ago, he would have asked about our plans.
I force a lightness into my voice. “Also, Dad’s picking Ellie up after rehearsal. He offered to take her overnight. Apparently, he promised her homemade waffles with whipped cream.”
“She’s not going to turn that down.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I’m sure you girls will enjoy a night of debauchery.”
“You should reach out to Jensen or Reid. Grab drinks after work.” He doesn’t seem to notice my lack of casualness or the slight tremor in my voice.
“Nah, I need to work on the set. We’re getting close to opening night.”