Page 4 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
Ethan’s the kind of guy that gets noticed even when he’s not trying to be seen. Tall, broad, that stillness about him that feels more like coiled tension than calm. He doesn’t say much—never has—but when he does, he cuts right through the bullshit.
Black hair always a little tousled, and dark blue eyes that catch everything even when it doesn’t seem like he’s paying attention. Most people misread him. Think he’s aloof, cold, maybe a little intense. But I know better. Ethan feels everything. He keeps it locked down like a damn vault.
Jake’s slouched in the corner with his phone, thumbs flying, pretending he’s deep in a thread about something—sports, memes, the geopolitical state of snack prices—but I can tell he’s listening. That’s Jake’s version of diplomacy: stay quiet, stay chill, and let everyone else implode first.
Jake Carter is chaos in human form. The fun kind, mostly. The kind people don’t see coming until they’re already laughing too hard to care what he’s gotten them into. He’s got that stupid grin—dimples, of course—and a glint in his green eyes that usually means he’s about to say something wildly inappropriate or wildly clever. Sometimes both.
He’s all lean lines and quick movements, like he runs on instinct and caffeine and the thrill of getting a rise out of people. Jake can charm the hell out of anyone. Bartenders, grandmothers, bouncers… doesn’t matter. Give him ten seconds and a bad pun, and somehow everyone’s in love with him.
I’m in Nick’s leather armchair, leaned back like I’m watching a live episode ofEmotional Meltdowns of the Moderately Wealthy. It squeaks slightly when I shift, but I don’t bother to adjust. The drama is getting good.
“She said yes, man. Can you believe that?” Nick snaps, suddenly flinging himself onto the couch. “Danielle hired her. Like this is some gig. Like she’s just showing up for the paycheck and not, you know, to haunt my entire existence.”
Jake doesn’t look up from his phone. “I mean, itisa paycheck.”
Nick sits up and scowls. “Not helping, Jake.”
Jake shrugs without looking up. “Just saying.”
Ethan takes a long pull of his beer and mutters, “You need therapy.”
“What was that?” Nick snaps, eyes flashing.
“I said,” Ethan replies evenly, “you need therapy. Likeactualtherapy. With a licensed professional and probably a journal.”
Nick waves him off and gets to his feet again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it. She’s going to be aroundall weekend.At every event. Every photo. Every toast. I’m gonna turn, andbam, there she is—probably sipping champagne and smiling that fake-sweet smile like she’s not bothered at all to be there withmyfamily inmyspace!”
“She has a strong passive-aggressive game,” Jake adds. “That’s undeniable.”
Nick paces again, jaw tight, hands gesturing wildly in the air.
“She’ll make these little digs,” he continues, “like, ‘Oh, Nick, remember when you tried to cook and nearly burned down your kitchen?’, in front of my grandmother or something. Like I’m some sad disaster she pitied for a while. And she’ll do that thing where she tilts her head like she’s listening, but she’s actually judging you.”
I exhale slowly through my nose and rub the back of my neck. The thing is… I get it.
I haven’t known Maya long—just a few run-ins before this wedding madness started, when she was with Nick.
I didn’t think much of her at first. She was pretty, but she was my friend’s girl. Then, something happened one day out of the blue. She turned, tucked her hair behind one ear, and gave me this warm smile, her brown eyes twinkling.
Andbam—she was no longer just my friend’s girlfriend.
I remember a charity event we both ended up at, and we got stuck in line for valet while it drizzled. We ended up talking for twenty straight minutes about the tragedy of mini quiches and why tacos at midnight should be a basic human right.
She’d made me laugh. Genuinely. I remember thinking she had this rare energy about her—equal parts mischief and warmth. The kind of woman who could talk a security guard into letting her into a rooftop party without an invite, and then spend the night befriending the bartender and remembering your drink order six months later.
“Nick,” I finally say when the pacing and ranting hit a new, high-strung pitch. “Maybe don’t give her all the power. She’s not doing anything yet except breathing in the same zip code.”
He glares at me. “You weren’t there.”
“No,” I agree, “but I amhere. And right now? You’re letting a woman with a sarcastic smile ruin your blood pressure.”
“She’s not just a woman,” he snaps. “She’sMaya.”
Jake smirks. “So, like Beyoncé, but with unresolved emotional trauma?”
Ethan finally cracks a smile. “Maya Knowles.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. Nick glares at all of us like we’re the worst support group ever formed, but it breaks the tension.
