Page 9 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Then it buzzes again.

Then again.

I don’t answer.

Instead I sit there while the echoes of my mother’s voice replay in my head like a greatest hits album of emotional sabotage.

Control disguised as care.

Shame wrapped in love.

After a while I drag myself upright and grab my phone.

The screen lights up with messages from friends asking where I disappeared to after work, and suddenly the idea of sitting alone in this apartment feels unbearable.

So I text them back.

Twenty minutes later they’re outside.

They take one look at my face and immediately declare that we are going out.

Boston at night is loud and bright and determined to distract people from their problems, and the bar they drag me into is packed with students and hospital staff blowing off steam after long shifts.

Dinner turns into drinks.

Drinks turn into more drinks.

Someone orders fries, someone else orders tequila, and at some point the room starts tilting gently from side to side.

“Bathroom,” I mumble.

I stumble down the narrow hallway toward the restroom and brace myself against the sink while the fluorescent lights hum overhead.

My reflection looks furious, hurt, and a little reckless. This is the perfect moment for the idea that arrives, and a moment later I’ve entered a cubicle and taken off my top.

I slip out my phone and flip to the camera, then give the screen a quick once-over like I’m judging art, except the subject is my bare chest and I’m clearly biased. I angle it a little higher, then a little lower, testing what flatters best, rolling one shoulder back so my breasts sit fuller and more tempting in the frame.

My mouth quirks at my own shamelessness as I adjust again, making sure the shot catches every soft curve, every teasing detail. When I’m finally satisfied, I take the shot.

My thumb hovers over Nate’s contact for half a second.

Then I type four simple words.

Look what you’re missing out on.

Five minutes later, my friends check on me while I’m trying to take an even better photo, and they confiscate my phone. I put my top back on, step out, and immediately blurt the truth. Unfortunately, that is five minutes too late.

“Okay,” Maya says carefully while steering me toward the door of the bar. “We are going home now.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, which is a lie so obvious that even the bartender snorts.

“You’re not fine,” says Rachel, grabbing my coat and shoving my arms into it like I’m a slightly uncooperative toddler. “You’re drunk, angry, and texting men who do not deserve the privilege.”

“Technically,” I say, swaying slightly as we step out into the cold Boston night, “I texted only one man.”

“Yes,” Maya replies. “That’s the problem.”

The October breeze stings my cheeks and clears approximately none of the tequila fog from my brain.