Page 38 of Sexting the Coach
There’s something about the press of his hand to the small of my back that makes me feel absolutely feral. So even though I bolted right after the kiss, realizing we would both have to deal with the consequences of me kissing him like that in front of all the cameras, I can’t stop thinking about it.
I can’t stop thinking about it, and my heart can’t stop pounding.
So much so that when I get to my apartment building, and grab my mail, my heart doesn’t really change pace much at the sight of a square envelope, sent from a name that normally sends a shot of adrenaline right through me.
Andrew Montgomery.
The doorman waves at me, and I force myself to wave back to him as I make my way to the elevator. The building itself is gorgeous, a historical structure—I think it used to be a factory—featuring the loft apartments like the one we share. Theelevators are golden and surrounded by elaborately decorative panels like Gothic crown molding.
It should be enough to take my mind off of it, but I’m already so emotionally shaken up from the game—from seeing Jonathan and kissing Weston in front of everyone—that the piece of mail from my brother is enough to send me over the edge.
Hands shaking as I push through the front door to our apartment, I walk in with my gaze locked on the mail. The living room is mostly dark, and I don’t look up as I quickly cross the room and drop the envelope into the spot on the top of the microwave—a graveyard for the mail we don’t want to throw away, but don’t want to keep, either. It settles there with some coupons for local restaurants and Hattie’s voter registration.
When I turn around, I realize the TV is paused on the image of Weston and I kissing at the game.
His head is dipped toward me, his hat turned around backward so the bill doesn’t get in the way. All the hair around his ears is dark brown, so looking at it, I’m the only who knows about the silver hairs sprouting up around the top of his head. A shiver runs through me at the sight of our embrace, his hands on me, my hair cascading over my back.
“Okay,” I mutter, shaking my head and pinching the bridge of my nose as Hattie and Mabel burst into laughter. “Is this really necessary?”
“Girl!” Mabel says, throwing her hand out toward the screen. “They turned the kiss cam on again, just for you!”
“I’m pretty sure this is rated R now,” Hattie jokes, letting her head fall against the back of the couch in laughter.
“Ha. Ha,” I return, letting out a loud puff of air and crossing the room, dropping onto the couch beside them. “PR asked us to make some public shows like that. I’m only following through on orders.”
“Oh, did PR ask you to stick your tongue down Weston’s throat?” Hattie asks, laughing again.
“His throat isn’t the only place I’d want to put my—” Mable starts, and I reach out, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t eventhinkabout finishing that sentence,” I say, and though I’m mostly joking, I can’t ignore the peel of jealousy that spirals up through my stomach. Weston isn’tmine. My body needs to be aware of that. He doesn’t belong to me. Anyone is allowed to lust after him in any way they want.
But Mabel’s eyes are on me, and I canfeelher understanding my jealousy before I do, so I pull my hand away before she can realize anything else about me. When she opens her mouth, I brace for her to poke me about it, point out the possessiveness I’m feeling.
“What was in the mail?” she asks, surprising me.
“Oh,” I croak, glancing over my shoulder at the microwave, which seems to glow with an evil energy.
The letter from Drew. Letter? Card? Maybe it’s a lawsuit, a super late summons to civil court, so he can sue me within an inch of my life for ruining his. I swallow through the glass in my throat and the fuzzy haze of anxiety in my head, finally managing to finish with a broken, “Noth-ing.”
“Sounds convincing,” Hattie quips, but the two of them probably already know what it is. It’s not the first time Drew has sent something like that—and it’s not the first time I’ve panicked and thrown it to the side.
For some reason, I feel far more comfortable ignoring it. If I open it, and it’s something bad, something about the past, I can’t run from it anymore.
But as long as I leave that envelope shut, I won’t have to face the music for what I did. I can continue avoiding Drew, and he can keep avoiding me.
It’s kind of a family tradition, to avoid talking about our problems. It’s something Mabel has been working hard to beat out of me.
“Wecan only work as roommates if we’re all willing to say what we need and what we want,” she’d said, after we moved into our first apartment, gesturing between me, Hattie, and herself. “You have to be willing to say when something bothers you, and accept when someone comes to you with a problem.”
It was hard, and incredibly painful—especially to share whenIhad a problem, but Mabel was right. We’ve never had a big friend fight because of the ground rules she laid down, and the expectation that if we have a problem, we tell each other.
But I don’t know how to tell her that itcan’tbe like that with my family. With my brother. Even the thought of trying to talk to them, to tell them anything serious, makes me break out in hives.
I open my mouth to say something—maybe even just to tell them I’mwaytoo keyed up to talk about my brother right now—but I don’t get the chance to.
“Do you hear that?” Mabel asks, her voice dropping to barely audible as we all stare at the front door.
Of course we heard it. A creaking from right outside our apartment. Like someone is standing outside our door.
