Page 91 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
Tessa is asleep. Her head is on my shoulder, her hand resting flat on my chest, right over my heart.
I am awake.
My brain is coming back online, processing the events.
I slept with her.
Owen slept with her. Ethan slept with her.
We have all broken the rule. We have all crossed the line.
The system has failed.
But looking at Tessa, feeling the warmth of her breath on my skin… I don’t care about the system failure.
I care about the solution.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I dim the brightness. I open the group chat.
The chat has been silent since the launch party on Friday. Five days of absolute silence.
I type a message.
Me: The status quo is unsustainable.
I pause. I look at Tessa. I look at the bruise on her hip that Ethan left.
Me: We need to talk. All of us.
I send it.
Then I turn off the phone. I wrap my arm around Tessa, pulling her closer.
Tomorrow, the war begins. Tomorrow, we have to deal with Ethan, the contract, and the secrets.
But tonight…
Tonight, the signal is clear.
16
TESSA
There is a theory that shame has a weight.
I don’t know the exact physics of it—that’s Asher’s department—but as I lie in my own bed, staring at the familiar water stain in the shape of a cloud on my ceiling, I feel heavy. Heavier than I have ever felt in my life. Like someone has sewn lead weights into the lining under my skin.
The room is silent. Usually, my mornings are chaotic—Barnaby meowing for food at a decibel level that defies his size, the garbage truck beeping outside as it struggles with the narrow East Austin streets, me tripping over a stack of library books I keep meaning to return.
But today, the room is perfectly, terrifyingly still.
I turn my head. The pillowcase is cool against my heated cheek.
Asher is asleep beside me.
He is lying on his back, taking up the left side of the bed.
He fits into the space too well. His arm is thrown over his eyes to block the morning sun filtering through my cheap, paper-thinblinds. His chest rises and falls in a steady, slow rhythm, a stark contrast to the frantic rabbit-kick of my own heart.
