Page 36 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

She lingers for a moment, perhaps waiting for something more, then gathers herself and opens the door. I don't watch her walk away. Don't check the rearview mirror to see if she looks back. I just put the car in reverse and back out of the parking space, heading toward my house with no clear destination in mind.

The house is empty when I arrive, Trevor still gone for the weekend. I drop my keys on the desk and stand in the center of the room, suddenly at a loss. What now? Call Byron again, try to explain the unexplainable? Text Sandy and admit I've become exactly what I resented in him? Reach out to Saylor and…what? Apologize? Accuse? Question?

None of the options feel right. None of them feel like they would change anything. And right now, I need something — anything — that isn't this crushing weight of consequence.

My laptop sits on my desk, screen dark, waiting. The marketing project I've been neglecting is due Tuesday. Mundane. Predictable. Controllable. Exactly what I need.

I boot up the computer, open the files, and lose myself in demographics and targeting metrics. The rows of data make sense in a way people don't. Numbers don't lie. Statistics don't betray you. A well-constructed spreadsheet won't throw your mistakes in your face when you least expect it.

For the next four hours, I don't think about Byron's face when he realized the truth. Don't think about Saylor's body against mine in that darkened bedroom. Don't think about Sandy and joining his hockey team. I think about market penetration and consumer behavior and ROI projections — safe, sterile concepts that require all of my concentration but none of my heart.

When Trevor returns that evening, he finds me at the kitchen table, surrounded by empty energy drink cans, eyes red from staring at the screen too long.

"Dude," he says, dropping his overnight bag in the living room. "I had a fucking blast."

I nod without looking up. "This marketing project is a fucking blast."

He chuckles as he makes his way to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He finds nothing and then takes his bag to his bedroom.

I can easily maintain my careful facade of normalcy. The problem with pretending your problems don't exist, though, is that they're still there waiting when you finally look up. And tomorrow is Monday. Tomorrow is hockey practice. Tomorrow is facing Sandy, who will have undoubtedly heard from Byron by then. Tomorrow is walking into classes I share with Byron, navigating the wreckage I've helped create.

But that's tomorrow. For now, I have data points and PowerPoint slides and the comforting illusion that if I just focus hard enough on the things I can control, the rest will somehow sort itself out.

It's a lie, of course. But tonight, it's a lie I need to believe.

Chapter 10

I push open the apartment door, my vision blurred by tears that won't stop coming. The familiar smell of cinnamon from Chloe's perpetually burning candles envelops me, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of Cade's car. The living room comes into focus slowly – our mismatched furniture, the throw blankets draped haphazardly across the couch, the stack of textbooks on the coffee table. Home. Safety.

Mina and Chloe look up simultaneously from their spots on the couch, their expressions shifting from casual interest to alarm in the span of a heartbeat. They're on their feet before I can even close the door behind me.

"Oh, Say," Chloe whispers, reaching me first, her arms wrapping around my shoulders.

Mina joins the embrace without a word, her familiar perfume mingling with Chloe's floral shampoo. I collapse into them, the weight of the morning finally breaking through whatever brittle composure I'd maintained in Cade's presence. My sobs are ugly and raw, my body shaking with the force of them.

They guide me to the couch, one on each side like sentinels guarding against any further hurt. The cushions envelop me, worn and familiar, as Chloe presses a box of tissues into my hands.

"What happened?" Mina asks gently, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You told us about hooking up with Cade, but then he showed up here and you both left…"

I take a shuddering breath, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. How do I explain the catastrophe of what just happened? The humiliation of facing Byron, the cruel truths he revealed, the cold distance in Cade's eyes afterward?

"We told Byron," I manage, my voice scratchy from crying. "About last night. About Cade and I."

Chloe's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "How did he take it?"

I shake my head as tears fall. "How do you think? He was devastated. Furious. Said horrible things. True things."

"He was angry," Mina says, her tone careful. "People say things they don't mean when they're hurt."

I shake my head, fresh tears threatening. "No, that's just it. He meant every word. And he was right. What kind of person sleeps with their boyfriend's best friend that fast after breaking up?"

"Ex-boyfriend," Chloe corrects quietly.

The technicality offers little comfort. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Not even enough time for the sheets to cool, as Byron so eloquently pointed out.

"I hate Cade for making me do this," I say, the resentment rising like bile in my throat. "We didn't have to tell Byron. We could have kept it between us. A stupid, drunken mistake that no one had to know about."

This morning in my bedroom, Cade had seemed so certain, so righteous about facing the consequences. Easy for him to take the moral high ground when he wasn't the one being torn apart by Byron's words. The memory of Cade's face when Byron revealed what I'd said about him sends a fresh pang through my chest – the blank mask that settled over his features, hiding whatever hurt or anger must have been churning beneath.

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