Page 33 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

They hug me, one on each side, a fortress of female solidarity that makes my eyes burn with fresh tears.

"Call us if you need us," Chloe whispers.

"We'll be here when you get back," Mina adds.

Outside, Cade's car idles at the curb, a sleek, dark presence that matches my mood. I open the back door without hesitation, sliding into the backseat.

Cade meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, a question in his gaze that I answer with a small nod. Do it. Call him. Before I change my mind.

He pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for his phone. The sound fills the car, each ring driving a spike of dread deeper into my chest.

"Fucking finally," Byron's voice erupts from the speaker, tight with anger and something else — relief? "Where the hell have you been? Why aren't you answering your phone?"

My stomach twists painfully. He sounds so normal, so Byron, so unaware that his world is about to tilt on its axis.

Cade ignores the questions, his voice carefully controlled. "Hey, man. I can head over right now if you want."

"Yeah, actually," Byron says, the edge in his voice softening slightly. "That would be good. I've got some shit to figure out."

"Hop in my car. I'll be there in ten," Cade says, then ends the call.

Silence fills the car, thick and oppressive. Cade's eyes find mine in the mirror again, and what I see there makes my breath catch. Fear. Uncertainty. The same nauseating cocktail of emotions churning in my own stomach. This isn't just hard for me; it's going to cost him too.

I wonder if we're making a mistake. The truth isn't always healing. Sometimes it's just another weapon, capable of inflicting wounds that never fully close.

But we've committed now, the car moving steadily toward Byron's place like a missile locked on its target. I stare out the window, watching familiar streets pass by, wondering how the world can look so normal when everything inside me feels shattered.

Byron is waiting outside his building when we arrive, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the morning chill. His eyes widen when he spots me in the backseat, confusion quickly giving way to suspicion.

He approaches the passenger side, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. "What the fuck is this?" he demands, glancing between Cade and me, connecting dots I can almost see forming in his mind.

I try not to cry. I really do. But my throat constricts painfully as I watch the realization dawn on his face. It wasn't supposed to be like this. None of this was supposed to happen.

"Get in," Cade says quietly. "Please."

Something in his tone must register with Byron, because he hesitates only briefly before sliding into the passenger seat, his movements stiff with tension.

Cade pulls away from the curb again, driving aimlessly, giving us the illusion of privacy in this confined space. Byron twists in his seat, his eyes finding mine, sharp with accusation.

"Why are you here?" he asks, though I think he already knows the answer.

Cade clears his throat. "So, last night—"

"Is this the guy?" Byron cuts him off, still looking at me, his voice cracking slightly. "Is he the one you hooked up with?"

The question punches through my chest. I open my mouth, but no sound emerges — just a small, broken gasp that quickly dissolves into tears. The sight of his face, the betrayal etched into every line, is worse than I imagined. So much worse.

"Stop the car," Byron demands, his voice dangerously quiet. "Stop the fucking car right now."

Cade complies, pulling to the curb on a quiet residential street I don't recognize. Before the car fully stops, Byron is out, the door slamming behind him as he storms off, his entire body rigid with fury.

Cade and I exchange a glance, a moment of shared panic. Then I'm moving, fumbling with the door handle, stumbling out into the cool morning air.

"Byron, wait!" I call after him, my voice ragged with tears. "Please, just let me explain."

He whirls around, his face contorted with a rage I've never seen before. "Explain what? How my best friend fucked my girlfriend behind my back?"

"Ex-girlfriend," I correct automatically, then wince at how callous it sounds. "We broke up before—"

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