Texts From My Exes

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

HARPER

You know, it was super fun while it was fun, girrrlllll. Wanna hook up tonight? I bought the new Batman movie but we both know we won’t be watching it—we be flying high, fleek, rizzzzzzzzzzz.

Besides, Sarah and I decided to just be friends. Like us. But friends with benefits. We’re adults.

Text back.

—Deacon

I stared at the text, then the whiteboard across the room labeled in red Sharpie: Wall of Regret . It had names splashed across it along with little tally marks from all the online votes. I’m a visual person like that.

“Has a nice ring to it, right, Ezra?”

Silence.

I glanced over my shoulder, nearly losing my sheet mask in the process.

“Dude, you awake?”

Ezra didn’t answer, just lifted his phone higher as his fingers tapped across the screen.

His dark, shoulder-length hair flopped messily across his face like an emo shampoo commercial gone wrong.

Any hairstylist would weep. He doesn’t bother pushing it aside like a normal human.

No, he just shoved his neon-green glasses up the bridge of his nose and snorted again.

Wow, his snorts were starting to take on a rhythmic quality, might be able to compose a sonnet of snorts at this point.

As his best friend, I’ve taken it upon myself to label them, like some weird science project.

If it’s a quick snort, he’s just working and doesn’t have time to process words into sentences that could potentially be wasteful.

For example, conversations with me about the reality dating shows or my six-step skincare routine.

I still don’t understand the skincare one, he's half Korean, wasn’t that in his genetic makeup?

Skincare? But I digress. He waves the phone into the air like he was signaling a waiter—maybe me? And yawned.

“Are you… acknowledging me?” I asked. That would be a first in the past few minutes,. He’d resorted to snorts, hums, sound effects, emojis, and my personal favorite, tongue clicking.

Another snort escaped. Then finally, “You’re a mess.”

“Says the guy who hasn’t cut his hair since the last Spider-Man reboot and owns more black hoodies than a CW villain.”

He exhaled through his nose. “This again.”

“Before you even try to use your glasses as a ‘pop of color’, they’re an accessory .

Doesn’t count. And I’m not a mess. I organized all the crazy dating app texts I’ve posted over the last year on my TikTok and Instagram accounts and put up the ones with the most likes, like a psychopath who actually enjoys reading lame bootie calls. ”

“You created a digital landfill of every reason why most people hate dating apps and are single,” he muttered. “Random screenshots. Fake names to protect their delicate identities. Emojis in every file name. Your use of emojis is… medically concerning. I gagged at a winky face.”

I reached into the bowl of chocolate-covered almonds with a dramatic sigh. “I care not for your judgment. Only for your brain.”

“And my body?” He was teasing but I still tensed, some lines we do not cross, some lines stay firmly drawn even if we have to re-draw them at least a dozen times a month. Do not covet thy best friend for his body, brain, and the hidden face behind all that nerd.

I joked instead. “Your body’s hidden under a hoodie older than my trauma. Why do all the rich ones dress like they’re in witness protection?” He said he was a trust fund baby but I still didn’t buy it, he didn’t fit the part. All I knew was he had loads of money.

“Because we’re trying to avoid girls with whiteboards full of exes,” he muttered, eyes still glued to his laptop, his phone beside him, the screen lit up with my TikTok account. “And your trauma has its own calendar invite, pew pew.”

Was he making Star Wars guns references at a time like this?

He continued. “Single party of one, yes we’ll just have water I’m actively waiting to be stood up by another loser who lives in his mom’s basement, it’s a tough gig but someone has to walk so others can run, you know?”

I flip him off without looking. “Whatever, my messiness is charming and I don’t purposefully choose horrible dates. Besides, your spine is currently forming a permanent ‘C’ shape. You’re one coding session away from becoming a sentient question mark.”

Ezra mutters another curse. “Okay. I’ve narrowed it down to twenty… somewhat viable candidates. Are you sure you want to do this? There are other ways to fight this. Legal ones. I could call in a favor and have someone extremely rich and smart look over the paperwork your aunt left?—”

“I don’t have time , Ezra.” I cut him off.

“If I lawyer up, it goes into probate. If it goes into probate, I lose everything. This apartment is the only thing I have left from my aunt that hasn’t been sold, repossessed, or emotionally destroyed by mold.

I’m not losing it because I couldn’t go viral enough to prove I’m a modern creative earning her own keep.

Plus you know how Grandma Blue is, she’s a stickler when it comes to the law and she’s overseeing this like it’s my aunt’s last wish knowing they absolutely hated each other.

Do we really want Grandma Blue to be able to keep this place all because I can’t prove creativity?

Aunt Trudence died a month ago and the dirt wasn’t even dry before Grandma started making sure all her affairs were in order including this, one would think she murdered the old bat. God rest her soul.”

“Peace be with her.” Ezra muttered. “And she was pushing a hundred. I still think it was a good way to go if you ask me.”

“She died in front of Wheel of Fortune .”

“Her favorite show, and imagine finally buying a vowel while God welcomes you into heaven?”

“We sure that’s where she went? She yelled at small children and dogs.”

“She was half blind, she thought they were rats, you know this.” Ezra argued. “Anyway, have you considered just lying on your therapy intake form like the rest of us going through nervous breakdowns?”

I stare back at the wall, the same one that held a giant mural my aunt painted at the age of twenty—many a men have offered to buy that wall, mainly because it’s a naked self-portrait and Aunt Trudence had a banging body back in the day, but that’s besides the point.

A nice potted plant with strategic positioning covers the necessary bits, unless I forget to water it then you have dead grass where…

living things should be. The mural was the one thing she made me promise not to sell in her will, so naked picture of great aunt in her glory days, stays.

“I’ve been on a cancellation list for my new therapist for eight months.” I grumbled, getting us back on track.

“Maybe they smell your desperation for Adderall.” He sing songs.

I violently throw a piece of licorice behind me and glare. “I’m diagnosed, you ass!”

He sighed. “Then drink two Monsters a day like a real American and stop complaining, Harper. Every time you complain a butterfly loses its wings.”

“Not true.” I shuddered. “And drinking that much caffeine is how people end up thinking ‘ fleek rizzzzz ’ is a love language.”

His lip twitched—he’s trying not to laugh. Wow, I almost got an honest-to-God-Ezra-Park-laugh. It’s at times like that I knew there was a higher power.

But as soon as he realizes he’s about to crack, he returns to his typing while I stare at the board like it holds the secrets to the universe.

He narrowed it even further from the top twenty, when did he even do that? Was he multi-tasking this entire time? Five exes. Five photos. One 2:03AM screenshot that’s been reposted more than my graduation photo. Look mom, I’m famous!

I study the whiteboard again. “This is content,” I whispered, trying to manifest confidence.

A chair screeches behind me. Movement. He was on the move. Red Alert. Red Alert. “No.” Ezra said in a flat voice. “This is chaos. And you’re ignoring the spreadsheet. Again.”

“Don’t act like the spreadsheet has feelings,” I muttered, God knows it probably had more than him. Would it kill him to pretend?

I didn’t bother turning. Ezra was emotionally allergic to eye contact unless he was winning an argument or ordering tacos or pizza or any sort of food really. His DoorDash game was hella strong.

He exhaled like I’d personally offended every app on his laptop. “It has structure, Harper. Which is more than I can say for your love life.”

The printer in the corner whirred to life like it was waking up from a long Ezra coded lecture.

Ezra groaned. “Printer’s possessed again, this is why we can’t have nice things. Maybe if you didn’t set your hair dryer on it, you know electronics are sensitive.”

“That makes one of us.”

I could feel his glare in my direction, but I ignored it.

I stared harder at the whiteboard.

When he didn’t respond, or even snort, I glanced in his direction.

“No one prints anymore,” I mumble to myself.

“But people always need to dry their hair and it’s convenient.

” I looked him up and down, my gaze rested on his messy mop of hair.

“Most people use hair dryers at least, I imagine you’d choose the printer every time. ”

He flipped me off and walked over anyway, muttering about paper jams and cursed ink gods, and came back with a small stack of freshly printed pages. Without ceremony, he started taping them beneath the whiteboard like a full-fledged wall from Dateline .

“You’re too good at that.” I sighed. “Should I be concerned?”

He ignored me. “Do you want me to read them out loud,” he deadpanned, “or does that make it more real ?”

I swallowed. “It makes it more real, but it’s best to just yank the band-aid off, right?”

He tapped his chin then reached over and handed me the bag of chocolate-covered almonds. He followed that by cracking open a nearby Monster like we were settling in for a horror movie and not my personal romantic exorcism.

“Ex number one,” Ezra pointed at the first sheet. “I like to call him The Felon .”

“Ezra—”

“—We can’t technically prove he was there during the robbery,” Ezra clarified helpfully.

I threw my hands. “Right! Thank you.”

He winced. “But we can prove he used your Netflix account to stream Prison Break at 3AM from the scene . ”

I squinted. “That’s still circumstantial.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he slapped up the next photo. “Ex number two: The Himbo .”

“I thought we weren’t calling him that anymore.” I chewed my fingernail.

Ezra shrugged. “When you told him your grandma died he replied with a, ‘That’s hot.’”

I groaned and shoved more almonds into my mouth.

“Ex number three: The Motivator. He now runs an online community for men looking to ‘unlock their inner beast’ by quitting deodorant and punching trees.”

“I liked his ambition,” I mumbled. “At least he had purpose.”

Ezra goes quiet and then. “You Venmo’d him five hundred dollars so he could ‘launch his brand.’ He used it to buy a gimbal and film himself screaming shirtless in a Whole Foods parking lot.”

“You said you weren’t going to judge!” Why was I raising my voice? He was helping. Helping!

“Am I judging? I feel like I’m just presenting facts.” He taped the paper to the whiteboard and continued by slapping up another page.

I felt that slap reverberate through the apartment.

“Ex number four: The Pyramid Schemer. ”

I let out a dreamy sigh. “He was at least a really good kisser.”

His eyes narrowed or at least I think they did with the way his nose scrunched up. “He also tried to get you to invest in a ‘supplement empire.’ Which brings us to?—”

We both turned to look behind me at the stack of unused protein powder tubs labeled Herculean: Power Starts with You .

“You don’t even have a gym membership,” Ezra said flatly.

Did good kisser mean nothing to him? “I was going to try lifting.”

His eyebrows raised. “Lifting what? Your dignity?”

I threw an almond at his head. He dodged to the side completely unfazed.

“And finally...” He paused, expression unreadable. “Ex number five. Your little AI boyfriend.”

He full on grinned, it was mocking, and I refused to let out the little gasp that followed when I remembered how pretty his smile was. “What’s his name again?”

I hesitated.

“Vex,” I whispered into my hand.

Ezra blinked. “Wait. You really named him?”

I snatched the Monster from his hands and drank it like holy water. “He’s the perfect composite. Everything I ever wanted. Loyal. Smart. Hot but doesn’t know it. I made him up in the middle of a breakdown, and honestly? I regret nothing.”

Ezra burst out laughing and waved the last sheet. “This guy doesn’t exist. He’s barely realistic even on paper. ”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, straightening up.

“They only vote after the dates. And I have plenty of time to either find an actor or fake enough footage to make it believable. The point isn’t whether he’s real—the point is the story; the idea, the illusion that I’m dating an ex again, letting them follow along.

The last few updates got me over thirty million views.

I’m this close to getting sponsorships, which means this close to proving I can keep the apartment and that I am a successful creative. ”

Ezra snorted. “Right. Gotta find that talent in something, because you definitely didn’t inherit your aunt’s ability to paint.” We both glance to the naked mural. “Or your?—”

“I know my family’s talented…and that…my gifts are more hidden.”

The silence dropped like a weight between us.

I picked at the corner of the almond bag, voice quieter. “I’m really good at reading people. At making them laugh. At building something out of nothing and making it feel real enough to matter.”

Ezra watched me, I could feel his eyes on me. His voice softened. “You’re really good at starting things.”

“I know.”

“You just never finish them.”

“I know that too.”

Neither of us talked after that. We just sat in silence surrounded by fake dates, bad decisions, too much caffeine, and a maybe too perfect AI boyfriend named Vex.

What had my life come to?

At least I had my best friend by my side, neon glasses and all—as long as I had him and kept the apartment—I’d be fine.