Page 165 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
I hear a sound from the bathroom. A flush. Then the tap running.
I walk down the hallway. The bathroom door is cracked open, and Tessa is standing at the sink, splashing water on her face.
She looks broken.
She’s wearing a faded tank top and a pair of gray sweatpants. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, strands escaping and sticking to her damp forehead. Her face is paler than it was in the server room, her cheekbones too sharp, her eyes rimmed with red shadows.
Her gaze meets mine in the mirror.
She doesn’t jump or scream. She just slumps, her shoulders dropping as if the strings holding her up have been completely cut.
“I told you not to come,” she whispers to my reflection.
“You’re supposed to be at Asher’s,” I say, pushing the door open gently. “He thinks you’re safe in his penthouse.”
“I escaped,” she says, her voice brittle. “He left to go back to the server room, and I called a cab. I couldn’t stay there, Owen. It’s too quiet. Too sterile. I needed to be home.”
“Well, you didn’t answer me at all,” I say. “Which is why I’m here.”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. I want to rush to her, to wrap her up and hold her until she stops shaking, but I sense that if I touch her right now, she might shatter.
“You look like hell, Tess,” I say softly.
A dry, humorless laugh escapes her lips. She turns off the tap and grabs a towel, patting her face. “Thanks, Owen. You always know exactly what to say to a girl.”
“I’m serious. Asher is losing his mind trying to debug a virus that doesn’t exist. Ethan is terrified. And I…” I take a step closer. “I’m scared, Tessa. What’s going on?”
“I’m just sick,” she says, turning around to face me. She leans back against the counter, gripping the edge of the porcelain. “It’s a stomach bug. Or food poisoning. It’s relentless.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
She flinches. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a terrible liar, Tessa. Always have been. When you lie, you touch your neck.”
Her hand instantly drops from her throat, frustration flashing in her eyes.
“Why are you here, Owen?” she asks, her voice trembling. “Shouldn’t you be saving the company? Shouldn’t you be helping Asher patch the breach so Sterling doesn’t sue us into oblivion?”
“Fuck the company,” I say.
Her eyes widen.
“I don’t care about Mosaic right now,” I say, closing the distance between us. “I don’t care about the money. I care about you. You’re isolating. You’re ghosting us. You’re hiding in the dark.”
I stop right in front of her. I can smell the mint of her toothpaste and the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
“We promised,” I whisper, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her skin, and she leans into the touch instinctively before pulling back. “No secrets. We’re a team, remember? You, me, Ethan, Asher. We handle things together.”
“Not this,” she whispers, shaking her head. Hot tears immediately spill over her lashes. “You can’t handle this together. This isn’t a server crash. This isn’t a PR crisis.”
“Try me,” I say. “Tell me what it is. Did Markus threaten you? Is it because you never showed up for your first day at Nebula? Or is this about the hack?”
“No,” she sobs, a harsh, broken sound. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse.”
“What could possibly be worse than losing the company?” I ask gently.
She stares up at me, her eyes swimming with devastation. She takes a shuddering breath, her hands going to her stomach. She clutches the fabric of her shirt, twisting it tight.
