Page 78 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I step out, wrapping myself in a towel. I walk to my bedroom and pull out my laptop. I sit on the edge of my bed, water dripping from my hair onto the keyboard.
I open a new document.
To: Ethan Branson, CEO
From: Tessa Hartley
Subject: Resignation
I type the words. They blur through my tears.
Effective immediately, I am resigning from my position as Lead Brand Strategist at Mosaic. Please consider this my formal notice.
I stare at the cursor blinking.
I should send it. I should hit send, block his number, block Owen and Asher, and pack my boxes.
But then, I look at the rent bill on the table. I look at the empty room.
I can’t afford to quit.
But I also can’t afford to stay. If I stay, he breaks me. If I leave, I lose the money, but I keep myself.
“No,” I say to the empty room.
I’m not running away in an email.
I save the document. I’m going into that office on Monday. I’m going to look him in the eye.
And I’m going to make him watch me walk away.
Monday morning’s commute is a reality check.
My Uber winds through the streets of East Austin, past the food trucks and the graffiti-covered dive bars, crossing the bridge into downtown. The skyline rises up like a fortress of glass and steel.
Mosaic is on the top three floors of the tallest building. It’s a literal ivory tower.
I look perfect.
It took me an hour of contouring to hide the exhaustion under my eyes. I used a high-coverage concealer on the bruise on my neck, setting it with powder until it was invisible. I’m wearing a white pantsuit. It’s crisp, sharp, and leaves zero skin exposed.
I walk into the lobby.
The morning hum has started, but it feels muffled, like I’m moving underwater.
I don’t look at the reception desk. I don’t look for Owen. I don’t look at the server room for Asher.
I walk straight to the glass office at the end of the hall.
The blinds are open.
Ethan is sitting at his desk. He’s wearing a fresh suit, but he doesn’t look untouched. His tie is knotted a little too tight, as if he tied it with shaking hands. There are deep, dark circles carved under his eyes. He’s typing, but his eyes aren’t tracking the cursor. He’s staring blankly at the middle of the monitor, just hitting keys to make noise.
He’s trying to look like nothing happened. He’s failing.
Rage flares in my chest, hot and purifying.
I push the door open and walk in without knocking.
