Page 28 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"I broke up with you," I mutter, feeling my stomach get woozy again. "We are done."

"I was giving you space after that text, after all that shit with Cade, and then you turn around and fuck somebody else the first chance you get?"

I feel myself getting sick again. At the mention of Cade, I gag. "I shouldn't have called you."

"Who was it?" he demands suddenly. "You wouldn't tell me last night. Said it was asecret."

Shit.

Doesn't that give it away?

But then the realization hits me. I didn't tell him who I hooked up with. I almost feel relief. In my drunken state, I confessed to the act but not the identity. A small mercy from drunk-me to sober-me.

"It doesn't matter," I say quietly.

"It doesn't matter?" He repeats my words, incredulity raising his pitch. "Of course it matters! Was it someone I know? It was, wasn't it? Is that why you were laughing about how it's a fucking secret?"

Fear coils tighter in my chest, constricting my breathing. If he finds out it was Cade, his best friend…I can't even imagine the fallout. I don't think I want to live to see the day.

"It was a mistake," I tell him, which is both true and not. The act itself had been deliberate, desired — it was the choice of partner that was catastrophic. "I was drunk and upset and made a terrible decision."

"Was it Wilson?" His voice hardens with suspicion. "I know he goes to those parties. I saw how he was looking at you in Econ class last week."

"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. "It wasn't Wilson."

"Then who?" he presses. "Some random guy? Wasn't Cade at the party too? I'll just ask him who the fuck you disappeared with."

I close my eyes, trying to think through the pounding in my head. Every option feels like walking through a minefield. Lie? Tell the truth? Hang up? Move to another country?

"Why do you care?" I ask finally, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "I broke up with you, Byron. You don't get to question me about who I sleep with anymore. And you…you have checked out of this relationship months ago. I wear all this sexy lingerie for you, and you turn your head the other way. You would rather play your fucking video games than to touch me, so I don't think you have a right to be this mad. My head is pounding. I'm lying down in my puke. I just woke up, but you won't leave me the fuck alone this morning. I need a fucking minute!"

Silence stretches between us. When he speaks again, his voice is low, controlled. "You replaced me so fucking fast, Saylor. And then you call me to make sure I know about it? Did you want to hurt me? Is that it?"

Guilt and shame flood through me, bringing fresh tears to my eyes. "No," I whisper. "Of course not."

"Well, congratulations," he says coldly. "You failed."

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in my hand, watching as the call duration ticks to a stop. Four minutes and twelve seconds of conversation that just destroyed whatever civility might have remained between us.

I drop the phone on my nightstand and look down at myself — cold sticky vomit all over me, wearing lingerie I bought to seduce a man who wasn't my boyfriend. I'm hungover and miserable.

I've never hated myself more than I do in this moment, but I need to get cleaned up. I hop off the bed, wiping the vomit off my legs with the clean side of the blanket. Now the stench remains on my skin. I grab my towel and clean up as much vomit from the blanket as possible. I pull the blanket off my bed and fold it carefully, dropping it on the ground. Then I creep into the bathroom and take a shower, washing off the dried up come between my legs and the disgusting vomit from my thighs. I scrub at my skin like I could wash away the memories, the guilt, the knowledge of what I've done. But some stains don't come out, no matter how hard you scrub. I use a clean towel to dry off and start a load of laundry.

My phone buzzes again when I walk back into my room. For one wild moment, I think it's Byron calling back, but the screen shows a text from Mina.

You alive? Chloe made hangover pancakes. Come get some when you crawl out of your grave.

Pancakes. As if food could fix this. As if anything could fix this.

I get dressed and drag myself out of my room.

Maybe my friends will know how to fix this.

Chapter 7

When I wake up, my head pounds with the signature throb of too much beer and too little water, but it's nothing compared to the wave of dread that crashes over me when I see Byron's name on my phone screen.

Six missed calls. Four texts. The first one simple and direct:Call me. Now.

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