Page 31 of Fault Lines
I made it all the way to the guest shower before letting the tears come, doubling over on the tile as the water tried and failed to drown out the noise in my chest.
Chapter Ten
The weeks blurred one into the next. Most days, I was tucked away in the little bookstore with Nate and Mr. Porter, losing myself in stacks of new releases and the comforting hush between shelves. I genuinely loved my job. The employee discount meant my to-read pile at home grew faster than I could finish books, and sometimes I got to take home an advance copy, hidden treasure before the rest of the world could see.
I was starting to feel a little more competent behind the espresso machine, too. I’d only ruined around ten drinks so far, but Nate never made me feel bad about it. He was nothing but patient, never scolding, not even when I somehow managed to steam oat milk all over the counter.
It turned out that he liked almost all the same books I did. He’d introduced me to a new fantasy author—a name I’d never even heard before—and I devoured the first book in a weekend, obsessed. We spent ages standing between stacks, our hands full of hardcovers, debating whether magic belonged in medieval worlds or in modern-day stories.
He was firmly Team Modern. I was not.
“But magic in our time just opens up so many possibilities,” he insisted, one morning when I was restocking shelves. “If you go back before technology, you’re automatically limited.”
I hefted another set of paperbacks from the box and started arranging them on the display. “Maybe, but don’t you think magic just feels more real if it’s happening back when people actually believed in it? There’s a kind of authenticity there you don’t get from neon lights and cell phones.”
He’d laughed—a surprised, genuine sound—and then, out of nowhere, his hand brushed along my cheek, so gentle I almost missed it. “I never win arguments with you, Livi. You always have a comeback,” he said, his eyes crinkling.
The surprise wasn’t that his fingers touched my face. It was how quickly I melted into it, how easy it was to just lean into the warmth of his hand. I liked it—a little too much. I needed to keep my boundaries clear, at least with someone I saw every day at work. My life outside the shop already felt tangled enough.
Things with Cam… honestly, they were improving. He was home for dinner nearly every night, and most evenings we curled up together on the couch, watching movies and letting ourselves be lazy. On weekends, we went out—to the zoo, to a museum, to a wine tasting one Saturday. He even started holding me again while we slept, sometimes so tightly I woke up pressed into his chest. One night, we bar hopped like old times. We paid for it the next morning, both hugging the toilet, laughing at ourselves.
But Thursday nights, I had a routine. Either I went to Rachel’s for distraction, or I stayed in alone with a bottle of wine. I drank enough that I’d fall asleep before Cam got home, so I wouldn’t have to see him go straight for the shower, ignoring me, or catch a whiff of unfamiliar perfume on his shirt.
Things were better, yes—but his Thursday absences never felt like something I could just ignore. He was building a bridge back to me, trying to bring us closer, but I could feel myself pulling away, one inch at a time. I didn’t want to—I tried to stop myself from shutting down—but it just kept happening.
Sometimes, in the middle of the day, I’d picture him with other women, and suddenly I couldn’t see the man I loved in the face I woke up next to. It wasn’t a decision, just a slow retreat, the walls coming up, each week a little higher. Armor against the ache he kept causing.
Ironically, Cam was in the best mood he’d been in for a while. He laughed more, smiled at me for no reason. It was like he’d come back from wherever he’d retreated to months ago, and I was the one left behind, withering quietly. I tried to follow his advice and stay present, but the hurt was there, always humming beneath the surface.
He noticed, sometimes. Like when he’d mention a detail about those nights, and my smile would falter. There were times he caught me crying into my pillow, silent and tense, hoping he’d just fall asleep and leave me alone. Or when I tuned him out over dinner, mind wandering to the shop, or Nate’s voice, or the heated, silly back-and-forths we’d had about fantasy novels.
I still hadn’t told Cam I was working. It felt safer, somehow, to keep it to myself. Mr. Porter let me set my own hours so I was always home when Cam was, and Nate had hired two new employees to cover weekends and evenings. I didn’t know why Nate still came in so often, especially with Mr. Porter back and both of us more than trained, but he was there most days. He did some sort of freelance work from home, so he had more flexibility, but sometimes I wondered.
On a Wednesday, I was up earlier than usual. Another restless night. I wrapped my hands around a mug of coffee and tried to lose myself in my book, but I kept rereading the same paragraph.
Cam came down as the morning light crept through the windows. He was already in his running gear, the fabric clinging to his body. I stared at him and felt my own pulse pick up, a sudden jolt of desire I hadn’t expected. It had been a longtime since we’d had real sex. Self-satisfaction wasn’t the same as being wanted by someone else. Not even close.
He stretched his arms and smiled my way. “Up early?” he asked, pouring coffee and filling the kitchen with the smell of roasted beans.
I took a sip before answering. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Again?”
I looked up, surprised that he’d noticed.
“You toss and turn every night, baby. What’s got you so wound up?”
I shrugged, noncommittal. “Just a lot on my mind.”
He frowned in thought. “Maybe cut back on the wine? Just a suggestion,” he said, quickly raising his hands like he was surrendering. “I’m not saying you have a problem, babe. I just noticed you’ve been drinking more lately. Maybe it’s messing with your sleep.”
As if the wine was the culprit, not his Thursday nights, slipping quietly in after midnight.
“Yeah,” I said, voice flat. “I’ll try.”
He polished off his coffee and set the mug down. “This is nice. Maybe I should do coffee before my run more often. We could make it a habit.”
Of course, he’d never think to make it himself. Why bother, when he had a wife at home to play barista every morning?
