Page 35 of Texts From My Exes
My phone buzzing nonstop.
The doorbell ringing like someone had broken the emergency glass and the fire department was trying to break in.
Across the bed, Harper groaned, dragging a pillow over her head. “Make it stop.”
I reached for my phone, eyes blurry I realized I’d stupidly slept in my contacts so it took me a few minutes to actuallysee the screen at first. One glance at the notifications had me swearing under my breath and sliding my finger cautiously across the screen.
This wasn’t going to be a normal morning. Not by a long shot.
The doorbell rang again, sharper this time—followed by a pounding knock, like whoever was out there thought they were collecting on a debt. Never mind, that was illegal now, so it had to be either the police, her angry parents, angry neighbors, or who? Who else could it possibly be?
“Tell them we died!” Harper mumbled into her pillow.
Not a bad idea. Except my phone was still vibrating like it had developed a pulse, and every glance at the screen made my stomach drop further. He’d called. Because of course he did. I’d come out of hiding—not on purpose, again, I forgot the internet was full of sleuths and people who actually cared. Of course he wasn’t one that cared about anything other than money and now I was in deeper shit because he’d come for her the way he came for me all those years ago when I was innocent and stupid.
Mentions. Tags. Old photos. Interview clips followed the several missed calls from him.
Her upload wasn’t justout there. It had detonated the internet.
Half the internet was arguing over whether I was really me. The other half was pulling receipts to prove it was.
The comments were a minefield:
OMG IT’S HIM.
I thought he disappeared.
Who’s the girl??
She’s not famous, she’s just a teacher, that girl doing the whole dating exes thing on TikTok.
She looks…fine, I guess.
Fine. They called herfine. My jaw flexed.
Another round of knocks shook the door. I glanced at Harper. She hadn’t moved.
“Should we paper, rock, scissors for it?” I asked.
“Don’t open it,” she said, voice muffled. “It’s probably a serial killer. Hey maybe they’ll finish the job, should I even look at my phone?”
“Hm, serial killer. Then I should definitely open it. Might be an improvement over this morning.” I shoved my phone in the pocket of the jeans I’d slept in. I earned a half-hearted pillow toss in my general direction from Harper, not sure if it was encouragement or more or less like answer so I could get back to sleep, but I kept walking anyways.
I pulled on one of the hoodies I kept at her house—no good meeting a serial killer without proper loungewear—and went to the door. Through the peephole, I caught sight of a camera lens. A big one. And behind it, a woman holding a mic with a news station logo.
Paparazzi. Local news. Both?
Great.
I backed away and shut the bolt. “We have company,” I called toward the bedroom.
“Who?”
