Page 93 of Faultlines

My feet have gone numb where I’m standing.

Sloane’s fingernails are now digging into my skin. I am acutely aware of Lucy beside me, her palm pressed flat over her mouth.

This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t an accident. This is an arrangement.

Their slow deliberate rhythm intensifies. Brooke’s voice is continuous now, unguarded, and unselfconscious, as the shelving unit scrapes against the wall.

Beside me, Sloane lifts her phone, the screen a pale rectangle in the dim light, and I don’t stop her. The phone remains steady in her hand for several seconds, then she lowers it again, the faint click of the screen going dark.

Ethan says her name, and I have to look away.

Then it goes silent.

I look from Lucy to Sloane. We step back from the door with unnaturally soft footsteps. We move single file down the corridor to where we left our shoes before stopping. We stand in the wider hallway where the air is cooler, and look at each other under the flickering lights.

“Oh God, I just realized… that was them in the tact room during the fundraiser.” I say, right before I double over and vomit. Lucy rushes over and holds back my hair, rubbing my back.

I straighten and lean against the cinder block wall, needing it to hold me up. There’s nothing to say—not yet. The right words haven’t formed, and I doubt they’ll materialize soon.

Sloane shoves her hair back with both hands, a frustrated gesture, and fixes her gaze on the stained ceiling tiles. “I’m going to rip him to shreds.” She glances back down the hallway, then turns her gaze to us.

Lucy utters, “Okay. What do you want us to do?”

“Nothing,” I say, the word a strained whisper. “Right now, we do nothing.” I push off the wall and try to access a functional version of myself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

FAILURE POINT

Ethan

My hand reaches across the bed and finds only a cold sheet. Then I remember, girls’ night. Peter picked Ellie up after rehearsal, and she stayed at his house with the promise of Saturday morning pancakes.

I roll onto my back and glance at the clock. Later than I usually sleep on a weekend. The house is silent. I hadn’t realized how much noise Claire and Ellie filled it with until now.

I spend the morning accomplishing tasks, unloading the dishwasher, answering emails, and reorganizing a drawer. Productivity is a habit I can’t break. Claire jokes I don’t know how to relax. While alphabetizing takeout menus, I suspect she’s right.

Around ten, thoughts of Claire resurface, her half-finished lists scattered across the counter. A smile touches my lips, then fades. We haven’t spoken since yesterday afternoon, a few texts about Peter picking up Ellie.

I glance at my phone.

Nothing.

The silence shouldn’t bother me. Claire is with Lucy and Sloane. I assume they are still asleep. It’s logical. Even so, I check my phone again.

Still empty.

By eleven, I need fresh air. A run, I hope, will steady my thoughts and restless energy, it helps for a while. I focus on my feet, the rhythmic pounding on the pavement. For forty minutes, my mind is blank.

After showering, I make a sandwich, and settle on the couch to watch baseball. Three innings later and I realize I don’t know what the score is.

My feeling is irrational. Claire doesn’t need to check in constantly. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t think twice. Yet, something feels off so I send a text.

Hope you had fun last night. Tell Sloane I don’t want to know what she talked you into.

I stare at the message after sending it, then set the phone down. As the afternoon wears on, a heaviness descends on the house. I wander aimlessly from room to room. In the family room, a stack of Alice in Wonderland scripts lies abandoned on the coffee table. The sight makes me think of rehearsal, and inevitably, Brooke.

I lean back against the couch, closing my eyes as memories of the previous evening drift through my mind.