Page 92 of Faultlines

“Let’s just say I was an extracurricular enthusiast.” She kneels, scraping at the lock. Every second stretches until it finally clicks, and the door creaks open into inky blackness.

“Oh my God,” Lucy mutters, shivering.

“See?” Sloane says triumphantly. “Preparation.”

We step inside. The hallway smells of disinfectant. Our footsteps echo on the linoleum as we move deeper, even Sloane seems to understand that this is no longer funny.

The closer we get to the auditorium, the more I feel like I’m going to vomit. Part of me still hopes we find nothing, because then all of this has been in my head. Maybe Ethan is who I’ve always believed him to be; maybe we’re all crazy.

Then we hear faint unmistakable female laughter, and we all freeze. Sloane looks at me, her face now pale. I look over at Lucy, whose eyes are wide and unblinking.

Slowly, with unspoken dread we move forward.

The auditorium is dark save for a few anemic work lights near the stage. Then we hear another sound, a muffled thud, coming from backstage.

Every instinct screams at me to turn around. Each step forward is a small negotiation with myself. The three of us remove our shoes and continue walking until we reach the storage room behind the stage.

A low, rhythmic, unmistakable sound emanates from behind the door. My brain catches up to what my ears already know, a sickening lurch in my gut, and I dig my fingers into Sloane’s arm.

Lucy almost runs into my back. I can feel her breath on my neck. “What—” she starts, her voice a reedy whisper.

I hold up my hand, palm out. “Shh.”

The sounds are clearer now, the muffled thumps and creaks.

Sloane, her voice a rasp, “Is that⁠—”

I nod. The three of us stand frozen in the narrow corridor. A low, male murmur resonates through the thin wood.

Ethan.

Then a woman’s breathy voice answers. I know that voice.

Brooke.

My throat closes and understanding settles.

Lucy’s eyes are enormous. She looks at me, then at the door, then back at me, and mouths, “Ethan?” I give the smallest nod.

Sloane presses her shoulder against mine, and I feel her trembling. Her hand finds my upper arm and grips it tight.

From behind the door, the rhythm quickens, a relentless, insistent pounding. Brooke makes a sound—a sharp gasp that doesn’t belong here, not now—and I feel my face go hot.

My feet remain rooted to the cold concrete, refusing to move.

How long has this been going on?

The three of us stand pressed together in the narrow corridor, acutely aware of our absurdity. But something holds us there. Not voyeurism. Something closer to shock. The kind that pins you to a spot while your brain struggles to comprehend.

Brooke’s sharp cry causes Sloane’s grip on my arm to tighten.

A sliver of light spills from the room into the hallway. I lean into the cold plaster, peering inside. My brain halts while assembling the scene.

Brooke faces us, unaware, her back to the industrial shelving. Ethan’s back is to us. He supports her thighs against the metal with his hands, and her legs are wrapped around him. Her dress is gathered at her waist. One high heel remains on, the other is lying on the carpet. My brain lands there before everything else reclaims my attention.

Their movements are punctuated by the shelving’s rhythmic creak. I see his shoulders, the shift of muscle beneath his shirt—the controlled movement of his hips. Brooke is not controlled. That is the thing the gap in the door shows me, the thing I’ll never be able to unsee.

He moves, and she absorbs it, her hips rising to meet his thrust. Their rhythm is slow and unhurried. When he shifts and she makes a guttural sound, and her back arches off the shelving as he changes the angle.