Page 150 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Errands?”
“I need to go to the drugstore. For… headache medicine.”
Asher studies me. He knows I’m lying, but he slowly nods.
“Go,” he says. “Text us when you’re safe.”
I watch him walk away. I watch the rigid set of his shoulders and the fiercely protective way he just checked on me.
I might be carrying his child.
Or Ethan’s. Or Owen’s.
And I just signed a legal contract stipulating that if anyone finds out, I cost them fifty million dollars. And so much more.
I feel like a massive criminal.
I’m wearing sunglasses inside a drugstore, standing in front of the family planning aisle and staring at the rows of pink and blue boxes like they’re improvised explosive devices waiting to go off.
First Response. Clearblue. E.P.T. Which one is best? Which one doesn’t lie?
I grab three different brands, ignoring the potential judgment from the cashier, and frantically scan the aisles. Is Sterling’s private investigator hiding behind the shampoo display? Is a reporter from TechCrunch lurking near the vitamins?
Paranoia makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up as I grab a bottle of water, a pack of gum, and a bag of pretzels—anything to bury the boxes in my basket before hurrying to the counter.
The cashier is a teenage boy with acne and a nametag that says Kyle. He scans the gum and water—beep, beep—before picking up the first pregnancy test.
He pauses, his eyes flicking from the box to my face.
I hold my breath, silently praying he doesn’t say anything or ask if I need a bag.
Beep.
He finishes scanning the rest, shoving them all into a plastic bag. “Thirty-two fifty,” he mumbles.
I shove my credit card into the reader, wait for the approval, grab the bag, and practically run out.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Ethan: Asher says you’re sick. Go home. I’ll bring soup later.
Owen: I knew the sushi was bad. I’m going to leave a 1-star review. Feel better, T.
I stare at the texts on my screen. They’re so incredibly sweet and caring, but they are completely oblivious to the live grenade I’m currently holding in a CVS bag.
I walk back to the office building. I can’t go home, because if I go home, I’ll be alone with my thoughts—or worse, Ethan might show up early. I need to know right now.
I take the elevator up to the fortieth floor, hiding the CVS bag deep inside my oversized tote. Keeping my head down, I breeze past the reception desk and the bullpen until I reach the executive bathroom near Ethan’s office. It’s a single-stall room with a marble sink, expensive hand soap, and a lock that actually works.
I lock the door and lean heavily against it, breathing hard.
Okay.
I rip open the first box, my hands shaking so badly I tear the paper instructions. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. I do it, setting the timer on my phone for three minutes.
I place the stick on the marble counter, right next to the other two, and start pacing the small room. Three steps forward. Three steps back. The agonizing wait stretches out, filling the tiny space with an oppressive, mounting dread.
One minute and thirty seconds left.
