Texted The Wrong Brother

She sent it at 11:47 on a Tuesday night, lying on her stomach across her bed in the dark, her thumb hovering over the screen for so long it nearly timed out.

Three seconds later, she hit send.

The bikini photo.

To Julian Hale.

Lena Hayes pressed her face into her pillow, squeezed her eyes shut, and shoved the phone a few inches away like distance might undo what she’d just done. She refused to look at it. If she didn’t see it, maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was still sitting in drafts, unsent, safe. Her heart was beating too fast, loud enough that it felt like it filled the whole room, and she stayed there, face buried, counting seconds she wasn’t sure were passing.

Then the soft ding cut through the silence.

Her stomach dropped.

She didn’t move at first. Just lay there, staring into the dark behind her eyelids, as if the sound could be ignored, as if whatever waited on the screen would disappear if she gave it enough time. It didn’t.

Slowly, she turned her head. Reached for the phone.

Her fingers hesitated before unlocking it.

She looked.

Cute look, bookworm!

If one could disappear into the mattress, that is exactly what Lena would have wanted.

******************************************************************************************************

Things like this don't happen without a reason, because how do you send a bikini picture to your worst enemy? And Lena's reason had a name, a face, and a jawline that should have been illegal in all fifty states.

Julian Hale.

The Hale house sat directly next to the Hayes house on Birchwood Drive, separated by a low hedge that neither family had ever bothered to replace with something taller. For five years, Lena had lived eleven feet away from the boy she couldn't stop thinking about, close enough to hear his music through the window on summer nights and close enough to wave, which she never did because she was Lena Hayes and waving at Julian Hale would have required a level of bravery she hadn't located yet.

She was seventeen. A scholarship student at Durman Academy, the most expensive private school in the state, where the parking lot looked like a luxury car dealership and the cafeteria had a pasta station. Lena ate whatever the cafeteria had left over at the end of the day and told herself it tasted just as good.

Julian was everything Durman Academy celebrated. Straight-A student. Hockey captain. Heir to the Hale Group, a business empire worth somewhere north of four billion dollars. The Outstanding Student of the Year award had his name on it before the ceremony even started. Lena sat in the third row of the auditorium and watched them call his name and watched him walk up to the stage, easy and loose-limbed, like the world had been designed to hold him comfortably.

She had a cake in her bag. She'd made it herself. Chocolate, because she'd seen him eat a chocolate muffin from the vending machine once. She'd spent three hours on it. There was a tiny hockey stick made of fondant on top that had taken forty-five minutes and two failed attempts to get it right.

She did not give him the cake.

She sat in the third row with the cake in her bag as she watched him shake hands with the headmaster and thought, 'One day I'll say something to him.' One day, I won't be invisible.

That was Tuesday afternoon.

By Tuesday evening, something had happened that changed everything forever.