44. Realignment
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
REALIGNMENT
Ethan
Steam curls from my coffee mug as I stand at the kitchen window. Two months ago, I expected the end of our marriage to be loud—screaming matches, lawyers, endless arguments.
Instead, it’s this. Room after room filled with silence.
I carry my coffee into the family room and lower myself onto the couch.
Across from me, Ellie’s school picture still sits on the mantel, that gap-toothed smile she hated, but I loved.
Claire’s favorite throw blanket remains draped over the armchair where she used to sit in the evenings, one corner tucked under the cushion the way she always left it.
Sometimes I think about folding it up, putting it in the closet, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
When Claire first moved out, I offered her the house. Hell, I practically begged her to take it. I told her Ellie should stay here, and that I’d find an apartment and figure things out. But she refused.
I got the house.
Some prize.
Winning it feels a lot like losing everything that ever made it a home.
At least Ellie talks to me now, even if it’s usually only one-word answers. Two months ago, she couldn’t even look at me.
Now she spends every other weekend here, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s only here because the custody agreement says she has to be. Once, she even let me help with her homework. I tell myself it’s progress, even if it’s probably just because Claire is terrible at math.
The sound of a car outside pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at the clock—nine thirty. Right on time.
The front door bursts open, letting in a gust of autumn air.
“Morning,” I answer, already smiling as I step into the foyer.
Ellie doesn’t look at me. She shoulders past with her backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds already in. Before I can say another word, she’s halfway up the stairs.
“Hey, El. How was school this week?”
She doesn’t slow down. “Fine.”
“I picked up those cinnamon rolls you like.”
No response. Her bedroom door slams hard enough to rattle the picture frames lining the hallway.
I knock on her bedroom door. “Ellie?”
Silence.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
Thirty minutes later I knock again. “Ellie, I’m heading to the office for a couple of hours.”
Silence.
“I was thinking maybe you could come with me. You don’t have to talk to me. My office still looks exactly like it did when you were eight. I figured maybe it’s time someone with actual taste fixed it.”
Finally, a muffled reply comes from behind the door. “It’s really bad,” she says.
After a long pause, she adds, “Do you still have that ugly lamp?”
I can’t help smiling. “Unfortunately.”
Silence stretches between us.
“Fine,” she says at last, drawing the word out as if agreeing might physically pain her.
“Reid’s going to love this—he’s been begging me to let you redesign the lobby since you said his taste was ‘aggressively beige.’”
I stand in the doorway, staring at the evidence of my daughter’s weekend project.
The conference room looks like a craft store exploded.
The polished mahogany table is covered with colored pencil sketches, the presentation boards display fabric swatches like colorful butterflies, and Ellie left a stack of architectural magazines scattered in the corner on Saturday.
What started as a simple visit to the office somehow turned into a complete redesign proposal for the conference room and front lobby. The ridiculous part is that several of her ideas are actually good.
“You know, most people let their kids draw on paper.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Reid leaning against the door frame, an amused grin playing on his lips.
“Good morning to you too.”
He walks into the room, and studies the sketches spread across the table. “I leave you unsupervised for one weekend, and you hand creative control of the firm over to a thirteen-year-old.”
“You should be thanking me. I almost volunteered your office instead of mine.”
He picks up one of Ellie’s drawings and pretends to critique it. “This appears to be a complete renovation plan.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“There are notes.”
“She’s thorough.”
“There are color palettes.”
I sip my coffee. “She gets that from Claire. I’m just happy I got her to talk to me.”
“There are budget recommendations.”
I wince. “Okay, that part might be my fault.”
He laughs, dropping the sketch onto the table. “The scary thing is that some of these ideas are actually decent.”
I can’t help smiling. “I know. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”
Just a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t spend ten minutes in the same room with me.
This weekend, I found her on the phone with my receptionist, reading off a list of paint swatches she’d pulled from my desk and arguing—loudly—that beige was ‘a crime against walls.’ The kid has opinions, delivered with the conviction of a seasoned professional.
“She’s going to be an architect,” he says.
“She’s thirteen.”
“Exactly. She’s already bossing grown adults around.”
“That’s not architecture. That’s being a Bennett.”
“Same thing.”
The conversation settles into familiar territory. Then Reid studies me for a second too long, his gaze thoughtful, and he pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Before I can react, he drops it onto the slick, polished surface of the conference room table.
I glare at it.
“Ethan. At least think about it.”
I already know it’s the name of another therapist. For months, Reid has been collecting recommendations like baseball cards, each a fresh assault on my carefully constructed denial.
“I thought we were done with this.”
“We are not done with this.”
“I’m fine.”
His skeptical look is almost offensive. His eyebrows are arched so high they could cast a shadow on his forehead. “You’re miserable.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You stare out your office window like a widower in a nineteenth-century novel, waiting for a ghostly carriage to appear in the fog.”
I tip my head toward the ceiling before looking back at him, but he continues undeterred.
“Half the staff are afraid to ask how you’re doing. They’re convinced you’ll start reciting poetry about heartbreak with a dramatic sigh and a faraway stare.”
“I have never recited poetry.”
“Not out loud.”
I hate that he’s making me laugh. More than that, I hate that he’s not entirely wrong. The humor leaves his face as he folds his arms, the fabric of his suit jacket creasing with the movement.
“I’m serious.”
“Reid—”
“No. Listen.” He gestures to the sketches covering the conference room walls. “You’ve spent months trying to rebuild things with Ellie. That’s good. It’s important. But you’re all carrying a lot of hurt.” I glance down at the slip of paper with the therapist’s name on it.
Reid’s expression softens, the hard lines around his mouth easing. “If you want any chance of showing Claire that you’re serious about rebuilding, then this is the place to start.”
He taps on the paper. “You don’t have to call today. Just think about it.” He pushes away from the table, gathering his project folders.
At the doorway, he pauses and looks back at the conference room. “If Ellie redesigns my office next weekend, I’m charging her consulting fees.”
A laugh escapes me. “Good luck with that.”
“Why?”
“Because she’ll probably charge you first.”
He grins. “Definitely an architect.”