Fault Lines
1128 Words
Fault Lines
Peyton’s POV
Cassie’s car was quiet except for the rattling of her keychain bouncing off the dashboard.
She was still talking—something about Brinley’s steal at second base—but her voice drifted in and out like a radio on low volume. I nodded when it felt appropriate, watching the sunset flicker through the trees as we curved around the familiar bends, the same path that led to my house.
“—you good?” she asked finally, pulling up outside my house.
I gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Just beat.”
The porch light was on, flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to give up or not. That should’ve been my first sign.
I thanked Cassie, stepped out, and the second her car turned the corner—
It hit me.
Yelling.
Not muffled. Not behind closed doors.
Sharp. Shattering.
I stood frozen on the front step, fingers stiff around my gear bag. Mom’s voice pierced first—high, furious, brittle. Dad’s followed, low and tight, like something ready to snap.
I stepped inside.
“—because you don’t listen, Megan! You talk over everyone, like your voice is the only one that matters!”
“That’s rich coming from the man who hasn’t said a real sentence to his own daughter in months!”
I froze in the hallway, heart pounding in my ears.
They didn’t see me. Not yet.
“I show up!” Dad yelled back. “I do the groceries, I drive her to school when you’re late—”
“Oh, please. You exist in the same space. That’s not parenting, Alan.”
I dropped my bag quietly by the staircase.
“Enough,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
Neither of them heard.
Mom’s voice cracked. “You don’t even see what this is doing to her—”
“Don’t you dare bring her into this.”
“Why not?” she snapped. “It’s the only thing we pretend to agree on anymore.”
“Stop it!” I said louder this time. “Both of you!”
That made them pause.
Their heads turned.
I hated how small I felt, standing between them like some kid caught in crossfire.
“What is this?” I asked. “What is happening?”
Dad turned to me, exhaustion carved deep into the lines on his face. His eyes looked duller than usual—emptier.
“I’m leaving tonight,” he said.
The words landed like bricks.
I didn’t blink. Couldn’t.
Mom scoffed. “Of course you are.”
He ignored her. Looked only at me.
“I can’t stay in a place that feels like a battleground every night.”
I stepped forward. “You’re really just walking out?”
“I’m not walking out on you,” he said quickly, more defensively. His face suddenly looked even more aged and wry. He took a deep breath “I just can’t—”
“But that’s what it is, isn’t it?” I said. “You’re leaving. What else do you call it?”
He flinched. Then exhaled. “I love you, Peyton. But your mother and I… we’re not working.”
Mom’s laugh was sharp and dry. “We haven’t been working for years. You just noticed?”
He turned to her, jaw tight again. “I tried.”
“No,” she said coldly, “you were always busy with work.”
I stepped between them, voice shaking now. “Can we not do this here?”
Neither answered.
Dad rubbed the back of his neck, then looked toward the stairs like they were his escape route. “I need to pack.”
“Coward,” Mom muttered under her breath.
I whipped around. “Mom, stop.”
Her mouth opened, like she wanted to fight me on it, but nothing came out.
I stared at her, then back at Dad. “So you’re leaving tonight. Just like that?”
He nodded slowly. Avoiding my eyes. “Yeah.”
I wanted to scream. But no sound came.
Instead, I watched him walk away—slow, measured steps up the stairs. Like he wasn’t sure if the floor beneath him would hold.
Mom stood behind me, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Several demons were drumming in my head.
Oh! God!
“I held this together for as long as I could,” mom was saying, more to herself than to me.
I turned to her. “Did you, though?”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“I don’t want to do this,” I whispered.
And then I left.
Went upstairs before she could reply.
His door was open. I heard drawers opening. The zipper of a suitcase being pulled.
I didn’t look inside.
Instead, I walked past it.
Straight to the bathroom.
Locked the door.
Let the water run before stepping in, just to drown out the rest of the world.
My knees ached from squatting behind home plate all afternoon. My hands were still bruised from Tee’s throws. But it all felt... far away now.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
This isn't what it was supposed to be.
Families were supposed to fight and then cool off. Slam doors and then make dinner. Not this. Not bags packed at 9 p.m. and no one saying goodbye properly.
I peeled off my jersey slowly. Let it fall to the floor. Traced the bruises on my shoulder from practice earlier.
I liked those bruises. They made sense.
I stepped into the shower and let the heat burn over my skin, tried to let it melt the tension out of my spine.
But nothing gave.
No matter how long I stood there, no matter how red my skin turned—
The ache in my chest didn’t move.
It just sat there, like a weight no one else could carry.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t even sure which side of the argument I was supposed to be on.
I wasn’t even sure if it mattered anymore.
All I knew was that the house would feel different tomorrow.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that scratches when you breathe.
I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the cold tile.
Willed the tears not to come.
Because I wasn’t weak.
I was the catcher.
The one everyone looked to when the ball got past the plate.
The one who stayed low so others could rise.
The one everyone expected to keep it tight!
I stayed in the shower until the water turned lukewarm.
But it never touched the part of me that needed softening.
No matter how hard I tried, the water couldn't wash away the voices in my head.
"I'm Leaving, tonight."
Dad!
- Writer
