Page 56 of Texts From My Exes
After a searing kiss that apparently wasn’t for the camera.
I pressed a hand to my chest, forcing slow, steady breaths. I wasn’t freaking out. Ha. Okay, maybe I was. But he was probably freaking out more—he’d been the one to initiate. He’d been the one to say he had something to tell me.
What did it mean?
Old me would’ve already envisioned the wedding, the kids, the house with a wraparound porch. New me—burned by exafter ex, armed with a blog’s worth of proof—was more jaded. Always assuming something would go wrong. Always bracing for impact.
Then again…this was Ezra. My best friend. The line we swore we’d never cross had been obliterated—by him. It was his choice. Which made me…his choice? Maybe? Possibly?
Or maybe he was practicing on me before he found the real girl he wanted. Maybe he’d pat me on the back, thank me for my service, and toss me a wheel of cheese and a bottle of wine on his way out the door.
Ugh. Intrusive thoughts: not helpful.
I was just pulling out the leftover spaghetti when my phone buzzed on the counter. Notifications stacked like wildfire. Mentions. Tags. DMs.
Frowning, I swiped open the screen?—
And froze.
There I was.
In my classroom.
On his lap.
Kissing him.
The angle wasn’t perfect, grainy but clear enough. His hands on me. The caption: Chemistry you can’t fake #TextsFromMyExes #BTSFootage
My stomach dropped to the floor. The walls tilted.
He lied.
He said no cameras. Just us. Only us.
The room spun as I gripped the counter. Breath shallow. Heart racing. Because what the hell? Was that what he wanted to tell me? That he was digging through my mouth for recon and more views when we didn’t really need anymore—I mean the money was nice, and it was nice that good old grandma would see that I was clearly creative and, and, the more I tried to make my heart stop hurting and make it make sense, it didn’t.
Ezra had been intentional, he didn’t have an accidental bone in his body.
Which means, he knew.
He knew before he kissed me. No wonder he swept me quite literally off my feet.
Once an influencer always an influencer? I felt like I was going to puke.
Keys jingled at the door.
“Honey, I’m home,” Ezra called, breezy, like the world hadn’t just detonated. He strolled in, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Also, traffic at five makes me want to day drink. I had leftover coffee and thought maybe if I just chugged the caffeine it would release dopamine because caffeine and receptors—but nope, all it released was my middle finger toward your neighbor. Sorry, not sorry.”
I stood frozen, phone clutched in my hand, the video still glowing on the screen.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how to talk to him.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
EZRA
