Page 164 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
But I’m not Ethan. I can’t just put Tessa in a box and file her away under To Deal With Later.
“She isn’t answering my texts,” I say.
Ethan stops. He stiffens, his back to me. “She’s sick, Owen. Asher said she needs rest. Let her rest.”
“It’s been three days, E,” I say, standing up. The chair scrapes loudly against the concrete floor. “She isn’t just sick. I know her. She’s spiraling. And we’re leaving her alone in that apartment to rot.”
“We’re saving the company,” Ethan snaps, turning around. His eyes are hard, but I see the crack in the armor. He’s terrified, too. “If we don’t fix this breach, there is no company for her to come back to. We do the work. That’s how we protect her.”
“That’s how you protect her,” I correct him. “By building walls and securing assets. That’s not what she needs right now.”
“And what does she need, Owen?” Ethan challenges, stepping closer. “Your jokes? A vanilla latte?”
“She needs us,” I say, grabbing my keys off the desk. “She needs to know she isn’t alone.”
“Where are you going?” Ethan demands.
“To check on her.”
“We have a meeting with the legal team in twenty minutes.”
“Handle it,” I say, walking past him. “Tell them I’m doing brand damage control. Because if Tessa quits, the brand is dead anyway.”
I need to get out of there. The air in the office is suffocating. Every time I look at her empty chair, a physical ache hits my chest. We were supposed to be a team. We made a pact. But the second things got hard, the second the real world threatened to crash our little fantasy, we retreated into our corners. Ethan to his leadership, Asher to his code, and Tessa…
Tessa ran.
I hit the elevator button and watch the doors slide shut on Ethan’s frustrated face.
I peel out of the parking garage, driving way too fast onto the highway. The Austin sun is blinding, but inside the car, the air feels unnaturally cold.
Asher said she was experiencing a “physiological anomaly,” which is his robotic way of saying something is wrong with her biology. He suspects burnout or a virus.
But my gut tells me it’s something else.
I’ve seen her expression lately. It isn’t just stress; it’s guilt. Heavy, crushing guilt. She walks around like someone holding a grenade, waiting for it to go off, terrified of who will get caught in the blast.
I arrive at her apartment complex ten minutes later. I bypass the intercom and use my key. We all have one. We practically lived here before the Morality Clause forced us to sneak around.
I take the stairs two at a time. When I reach her door, I pause, met with dead silence. I knock softly. “Tess?”
No answer.
I knock again, harder. “Tessa, open up. I know you’re in there. I can hear the AC running, and I know you didn’t leave the apartment.”
Still nothing.
“I’m coming in,” I warn.
Sliding the key into the lock, I turn it until the mechanism clicks, then push the door open.
The apartment is completely dark, the blackout curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, trapping the stale air that smells faintly of bleach and old soup.
“Tessa?”
I walk into the living room. It’s a mess. There are tissues scattered across the coffee table, an untouched bowl of soup, and a blanket fort constructed on the sofa.
But the sofa is empty.
