Best Friend's Trigger

The bass in the basement of the lakeside party was so loud it rattled the ice in my plastic cup.

I was tucked into a leather couch that smelled like stale beer and cheap cologne, my heels kicked off on the hardwood floor. Next to me, my best friend Chelsea was practically glowing under the blacklights, her crimson lipstick dark in the moody lighting as she swiped through her phone.

"I still can't believe you let me drag you out of your bedroom," Chelsea shouted over the remix of a Dua Lipa song blaring from the speakers. "You've been locked in that house with your books for three weeks, Tati. You were turning into a hermit."

"I was reading," I corrected, though my voice sounded slurred even to my own ears.

Two vodka cranberries on an empty stomach after four hours of sitting in the hot June sun had officially taken their toll. My skin felt warm, my vision had a soft, blurry haze around the edges, and the quiet, defensive filter I usually kept firmly in place was completely dissolved.

"Yeah, well, reading doesn't get you a hot guy for the summer," Chelsea said with a wicked grin, sloshing her drink as she leaned into my shoulder. "Although, if I had to sit across the kitchen table from your brother's best friend every morning, I wouldn't leave the house either. God, Wesley Hayes is ridiculously attractive."

At the mention of his name, a sharp, familiar knot pulled tight in the pit of my stomach.

Wesley.

He was twenty-one, broad-shouldered, light green-blue eyes, and curls that always looked like he'd just run a hand through them. He was also Jaxson’s absolute best friend, which meant he had spent the last three weeks living under our roof at the lakehouse—and spending every single second acting like I was invisible.

In person, Wesley treated me like a fragile glass vase or a ghost. He kept his answers short, his eye contact brief, and his distance firmly established. He was cool, guarded, and stoic to a fault.

"He's annoying," I muttered, taking another small sip from my cup. "He acts like I'm twelve."

"He acts like he's trying not to get murder-punched by Jaxson," Chelsea shot back, laughing. "The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention? Tati, please. The guy is fighting for his life."

"He doesn't look at me," I lied.

"Liar," Chelsea accused, snatching my phone right off my lap.

"Hey! Give that back—"

Chelsea dodged my uncoordinated hand, her eyes lighting up with sudden, evil inspiration as she held my phone out of reach. "Wait. You look ridiculously good tonight. That dark silk top? The lighting in here? We are taking a picture."

Before I could protest, Chelsea grabbed my arm, pulled me toward the dim golden light near the hallway lamp, and angled the camera.

"Pose! Look mysterious and sultry. Like you don't give a damn about anything."

I rolled my eyes, leaning my back against the dark wood of the doorframe. I crossed one leg over the other, tilted my head, letting my messy dark hair spill over my bare shoulder, and gave the lens a half-lidded, unbothered smirk.

Click.

Chelsea grabbed the phone, looking at the screen, and let out a low whistle. "Oh, wow. Tati. Okay, yeah, that is dangerous. That's a 'destroy a man's entire sanity' photo."

I leaned over her shoulder, my head spinning slightly as I looked at the image. The dim amber light caught the line of my collarbone, the deep curve of the dark silk top, and the relaxed, confident tilt of my chin. It didn't look like the quiet, introverted seventeen-year-old who spent all day reading on the window seat.

It looked bold. It looked reckless.

"Delete it," I murmured, though a dark wave of liquid courage was pulsing through my veins.

"Delete it? Are you insane?" Chelsea’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "We are sending this to Wesley."

I blinked, the vodka suddenly stalling in my brain. "What? No. I don't even have his number, Chelsea. Jaxson kept his contact info off the shared family group chat, remember?"

"Which is why I am getting it right now," Chelsea said triumphantly. Her fingers flew across her own phone. "Jaxson just posted a picture of the boat trailer on his story, which means he's awake. I'm texting him right now saying I need Wesley's number because he left his socket set in my car."

"Chelsea, don't—"

"Done!" Chelsea cheered three seconds later. A text popped up on her screen from Jaxson with a contact card attached. "See? Big brothers are so easy to manipulate."

She immediately tapped the contact card, copied the eleven digits, opened my messaging app, and pasted the unknown number into a fresh chat window. She attached the sultry mirror photo.

"Chelsea, stop, I'm serious," I said, reaching for the phone, but my reaction time was completely wrecked by the alcohol.

"You want him to notice you, right?" Chelsea whispered, her hand hovering over the blue arrow button. "You want to break that ice-cold facade he wears around the house? Then give him something he can't ignore."

She slammed her thumb onto the send button.

The little blue bubble soared into the chat interface. A high-resolution photo of me, looking like a total temptation in dark silk, sent straight to an unsaved, unknown number.

My heart slammed against my throat like a trapped bird. "Oh my god. Oh my god, Chelsea!"

"Shh! Look at the screen!" Chelsea giggled, backing up a step and clapping her hands over her mouth.

I stared at my phone screen in absolute horror and adrenaline-fueled fascination.

Because the number wasn't saved in my phone, there was no name at the top—just the dark grey numbers. The photo sat at the bottom of the thread.

Ten seconds passed. Twenty.

The two little grey checks at the bottom of the image turned bright, solid blue.

Read.

My breath hitched. The music in the basement seemed to fade into ambient noise. He had opened it. Wesley was sitting wherever he was—probably on the porch or in his truck—opening a picture from a completely random, unknown number.

And seeing me.

One minute passed. Two minutes. The screen stayed totally blank.

"He's stunned," Chelsea whispered, leaning back over my shoulder, her eyes wide. "He is literally losing his mind right now trying to figure out why his best friend's little sister is sending him a photo like that from an unknown contact."

"Or he's preparing to tell Jaxson," I whispered back, a sudden wave of ice pouring over my warm, drunken skin.

Buzz.

The phone vibrated so hard in my palm I nearly dropped it onto the floorboards.

Three small typing dots appeared in the bottom corner of the blue bubble thread. They animated once... twice... disappeared... and then reappeared. He was typing, deleting, and typing again.

Finally, a message popped up:

Unknown Number: Who is this?

Chelsea let out a quiet squeal, but I tapped her shoulder hard, signaling her to back off. My hands were shaking as I held the glass display, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Wesley was cold. He was disciplined. He spent every hour of every day keeping his distance from me. I knew how his brain worked—he was probably sitting on the edge of his bed right now, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, his light green-blue eyes wide as he stared at the image of my bare shoulders and dark silk.

He knew who it was instantly. There was no way he didn't recognize my face. He was just trying to force me to confirm it so he could ignkre me.

I took a slow, heavy breath, letting the vodka dictate my courage.

Me: You tell me. You're the one staring at the picture.

I hit send before I could overthink it.

The typing dots appeared immediately this time. No hesitation.

Buzz.

Unknown Number: Tatiana.

My full name. Written out with cold, sharp authority over text.

I leaned my head back against the wall, my heart hammering a chaotic, fast rhythm against my ribs.

Me: So you do recognize me.

Me: I thought maybe you forgot what I looked like.

Four minutes passed this time. The silence from the phone was deafening. I could practically picture him pacing the wood floor of his bedroom down at the lakehouse, running his long fingers through his damp curls, cursing under his breath because his iron-clad self-control had just been blown to pieces by an seventeen-year-old in a dark silk top.

Buzz.

Unknown Number: Are you drunk?

I let out a soft, breathless laugh, my thumbs flying across the keys.

Me: Maybe a little. Are you mad?

Buzz.

Unknown Number: Where are you right now?

Me: At a party with Chelsea.

Me: Why?

Me: Do you want to come pick me up?

Buzz.

Unknown Number: Where is Jaxson?

I rolled my eyes at the screen. Always Jaxson. Why do we care where he is right now?

Me: Jaxson isn't here, Wesley.

Me: It's just me. And my phone.

The reply took longer this time. The typing dots came and went twice before the message finally popped up on my display.

Buzz.

Unknown Number: Delete that picture off your sent folder, Tati.

Unknown Number: Right now.

Me: Why?

Me: Don't you like it?

Buzz.

Unknown Number: I'm not doing this with you over text while you've been drinking.

Me: You're not doing anything with me in person either, Hayes.

Me: You barely say two words to me.

Buzz.

Unknown Number: whatever

Me: You're boring.

I dropped the phone into my small purse, zipping it shut with a sharp snap.

Chelsea was watching me with wide, impressed eyes. "Holy crap, Tati. What did he say?"

"He told me to delete it," I murmured, though a dark, electric heat was curling tight in my chest.

"And are you going to?"

I looked down at my purse, feeling the quiet vibration of another incoming text against my hip. I didn't open it. I didn't delete the photo.

"Not a chance," I whispered.

For three weeks, Wesley Hayes had randomly started treating me like an off-limits ghost in my own house. But as I grabbed Chelsea's hand and headed back toward the dance floor.

What else do I have to lose?