Page 6 of Sexting the Boss

“Well, that’s good,” she says, the forced brightness in her tone so familiar it makes my chest ache. “Busy means job security.”

Busy means survival.

I swallow. “How’s everything at home?”

She hesitates.

And there it is. The silence that saysdon’t ask.

“They’re good,” she says eventually, which means they’re manageable. “Your brother’s still working at the garage. Your dad…” She trails off, and I don’t need her to finish the sentence.

My dad is an alcoholic.

A good man, once. Before the gambling, before the drinking, before he squandered away everything we had and left my mom to pick up the pieces. Before I had to leave home and make it on my own because there was nothing left for me there.

I press my lips together, adjusting my grip on the phone. “I can send money if you need?—”

“No,” she cuts me off gently. “You need it more than we do.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, because we both know that’s not true.

But I let her believe it.

Because I have to survive New York at any cost.

Even if it means putting on a pretty dress, pretending everything is fine, and going to a party with people who don’t really want me there.

“I gotta go,” I say, glancing at the time. “I’ll call you later?”

“Of course.” She pauses. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

The words wrap around my ribs, tightening something deep in my chest. I hang up before I let it settle too much, toss my phone onto the bed, and exhale.

Then I glance at myself in the mirror.

Dark brown hair, still damp and curling at the ends.

A slightly too serious face for my age, because life has made it that way.

Brown eyes—wide, expressive, and impossible to hide behind.

I brush my fingers over my collarbone, staring at my reflection. I don’t look like someone who belongs at Brittany Donovan’s party. But I have to try.

Because this is New York. And if I don’t find a way to belong, this city will eat me alive.

The car ride to Brittany’s place is surprisingly chill.

Ryan has some kind of “chill but also upbeat” playlist going, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m being suffocated by my own thoughts.

“You nervous?” he asks, glancing at me as he pulls onto Brittany’s block.

“Nervous? No. Bracing myself? Yes.”

Ryan smirks. “Brittany’s not that bad.”

I don’t respond, because the jury’s still out on that.

Instead, I focus on the house.

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