37. Red Tag
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RED TAG
Ethan
Brooke: Please meet me before work. It’s important.
A second message arrives.
Brooke: Please, Ethan. The diner at seven. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.
I stare at the screen, tired of secrets, and the consequences of my choices. Eventually, I reply.
Okay.
Her response arrives immediately.
Brooke: Thank you.
The Hitching Post is mostly empty when I arrive. The bell jingles when I open the door. The familiar scent of bacon and pancakes fills the air. Brooke is already in our usual booth, her figure small against the red vinyl. This diner, once a sanctuary, is now tainted.
She offers a smile as I slide into the seat opposite her. A waitress appears and pours coffee into my mug.
“What’s so important?”
“I’m leaving.” Her words take a second to register.
“What?”
“I’m leaving Juniper Ridge.”
The statement should shock me more than it does, but I guess part of me knew this was coming.
“The school accepted my resignation yesterday.”
The thought that one part of this mess is ending is a relief. Then another realization dawns. “Wait, opening night for the play is at the end of next week.”
She lowers her eyes, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “I know.”
“What about the kids?”
“Ethan—”
“No. Seriously. What about the kids?” The rise in my voice surprises me. “What about Ellie?” No sooner do I ask the question than hurt flashes across her face.
“People will call me a home-wrecker. Rumors are already spreading.”
I nod. Small towns have a way of unearthing secrets. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
My brow pinches as I study her. “Home? Is that what you want?”
“No, it’s not what I want, but I can’t stay here.”
The waitress glides over and tops off our mugs as more customers filter in.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
“What are you going to do now?”
My thoughts drift to Claire, to the half-empty closets. “I’m going to try to get my wife back.”
I pull into the middle school parking lot just before rehearsal starts. My stomach hasn’t settled since breakfast.
This auditorium is a monument to the damage I’ve inflicted.
Even from a distance, I can tell the main topic of discussion is Brooke’s departure. The official explanation might be vague, but people are already weaving a narrative.
The usual boisterous energy is absent.
I set my tools near the scenery workshop. I’m halfway through organizing materials when the Principal steps onto the stage. The microphone squeals, a high-pitched shriek that makes everyone wince. The reaction is so universal that, even in the midst of the uncertainty, it feels normal.
“Alright, everybody settle down,” he says into the microphone. The room quiets as students take their seats. He clears his throat, adjusts the microphone again, and begins. “I know many of you have questions about the future of this production.”
Behind me, someone mutters, “That’s one way of putting it.”
He waits for the room to settle, his gaze sweeping over the expectant faces, before continuing. “The production will continue as scheduled.”
Students burst into applause.
He raises a hand to quell the chatter. “Even better news, we’ve found someone willing to step in and oversee the rest of the production.”
I’m certain he’s about to introduce a substitute, or someone from the nearby high school theater department, when movement catches my eye. That’s when I see her.
Claire.
She steps through the double doors with a binder tucked beneath one arm. She pauses as the door clicks shut realizing the entire room is looking at her.
He gestures toward her. “Most of you know Claire Bennett, Ellie’s mom. She has graciously agreed to help us get this production across the finish line.”
Students’ shoulders visibly loosen, parents settle back in their seats, and even Mr. Harrington looks relieved.
Claire offers a tight smile.
For the next hour, I find myself watching her more than I should. She takes control of the room with an ease that doesn’t surprise me. Within minutes, she’s reviewing schedules, answering questions, and reorganizing problem areas.
At one point, I glance toward the stage and see Ellie laughing at something Claire says, and it fills me with both joy and regret.
Later when I spot Claire near the stage, I steel myself, take a deep breath, and walk toward her. As soon as she notices me, her posture shifts.
“Claire.”
Her stare is cool and appraising. “Not now.” Her words are devoid of emotion.
I stop a few feet away and raise both hands in surrender. “I just want to talk.”
“I know. We can talk after rehearsal.”
I stiffly nod. “Okay.”
Her gaze drifts to the bruise beneath my eye. “What happened?”
A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “Jensen happened.”
Amusement flickers across her face. “After rehearsal,” she repeats, glancing over her shoulder as someone calls her name before looking back at me.
I nod.
The rest of the evening passes agonizingly slow. I mostly pretend to work, checking the clock every few minutes.
When rehearsal ends, Sloane appears in the doorway. She’s juggling an oversized water bottle and jingling car keys. “Alright, Your Majesty,” she calls toward the stage. “Your chariot has arrived.”
Ellie laughs and rolls her eyes.
I pretend to organize wrenches and hammers, while I wait for Claire. I look up when I hear her approach. She folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t have very long.” Her pronouncement puts me on edge.
I nod. I have yearned for this conversation, but now the words seem stuck.
“The first thing I need to tell you is that I don’t want you attending rehearsals anymore.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you here during rehearsals.”
“I’ve been helping with the set since the beginning,” I say, my voice rising.
“Oh—I know.”
“I’m not saying you can’t finish the set,” she continues, her gaze steady.
“You can come in after rehearsal, work when the building is empty, or come in on weekends. But I do not want to spend the next week and a half standing in the same room with you while trying to keep this production together.”
“You don’t want me here,” I say, mostly to myself.
“No.” The single word resonates.
“You can come to the performances to support Ellie. Nobody is keeping you from being her father. But as far as rehearsals are concerned, I need space. I need to focus on these kids without seeing you.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she raises a hand.
“Don’t argue with me about this, Ethan. I also need you to understand something else.”
I gesture for her to continue.
“I am not ready to talk about what happens next. I don’t know what I’m doing right now, or where Ellie and I are going to live, or how to explain any of this to her.”
I take a step toward her on pure instinct. She takes a step back, and I freeze, my foot hovering in the air.
“I spent so much time thinking I was imagining things, being paranoid, overreacting.”
I can’t look away.
“I blamed my job, stress, perimenopause. I blamed myself.”
Shame twists. She searched for answers and all I gave her were lies.
“I’d come home earlier. I made more time for us. I thought if I could just figure out what was happening, I could fix it.” A tear slips down her cheek. “I don’t have any faith in you anymore. I don’t trust you. Not your judgment, not your promises. I’m second-guessing every memory of our marriage.”
These are the consequences Reid warned me about.
“I ended it,” I say.
“She abruptly resigned, Ethan. She left town. This is Juniper Ridge. News travels faster than Wi-Fi.”
“I still needed you to know.”
She picks up her binder signaling the conversation is over, but panic tightens around my throat.
“Claire.” She pauses with her back to me. “I’m sorry.” The words feel pathetic, inadequate.
“Yeah, me too,” she replies without looking back.