Page 69 of Sexting the Boss
We get pushed outside by the owner, and the city slams back into place like nothing happened. People walk past us. Traffic moves. My hands won’t stop trembling.
“Who was he,” Ethan asks.
“Someone I thought I escaped,” I say.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to,” I reply. “Because this is what happens.”
He looks at me, and I know he thinks he helped. I know he did help. That doesn’t mean I feel safe.
“You followed me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“That’s not okay.”
“I was worried.”
I step back. “You can’t fix this. You can’t confront him. You can’t scare him off. He doesn’t scare the way you think.”
Ethan opens his mouth then closes it.
“I need to go,” I say.
I walk away before my legs can argue, before the tears show, before he sees how badly this rattled me. I don’t look back, because if I do I might collapse into him, and I don’t trust what that would mean.
My phone buzzes again as I turn the corner.
Unknown: You always needed someone else to save you.
I keep walking.
I leave work early without announcing it, which is out of character for me and therefore feels necessary. I send a short message to HR, copy my manager, mark the afternoon as sick leave, and shut my laptop before anyone can reply with questions I don’t want to answer.
My phone starts buzzing the second I step outside.
Ethan.
I let it ring.
I don’t block him. I don’t silence the phone. I just don’t answer, and there’s a difference that matters to me right now. Blocking would mean panic. Silencing would mean avoidance. Letting it ring means I’m choosing not to engage.
I walk instead of calling a car, which is stupid given how my legs feel, but movement helps keep the noise in my head from stacking too high. The city is loud and ordinary and unfairly normal, and I hate that the world doesn’t register the fact that something in me has shifted.
By the time I reach my building, my stomach feels tight and sour, and my hands won’t stop trembling. I fumble my keys and swear under my breath, then manage to get inside and up the stairs without seeing anyone I know.
The second my door closes behind me, the tears come.
My chest tightens, my throat closes, and I have to brace one hand on the kitchen counter while I try to breathe through it. I count my breaths the way I was taught years ago, slow and deliberate, but my body doesn’t care about technique.
I make it to the sink just in time.
It’s violent and fast and leaves me shaking afterward, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, hair falling into my face. I spit, rinse my mouth, and stare at my reflection like it might offer an explanation.
My eyes look too bright. My skin looks pale. I look like someone who has been running without realizing it.
I straighten slowly and move to the couch, sitting with my feet flat on the floor and my hands pressed to my knees like grounding might come back if I wait long enough. My phone lights up again.
