Page 40 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

I'm one minute late to Economics, not because I lost track of time but because I spent sixty seconds outside the classroom door debating whether to skip entirely. But cowardice isn't going to fix anything, so I push through, scanning the room for Byron.

Byron sits in his usual spot, the chair next to him vacant. I walk over and slide into it without asking, dropping my backpack to the floor with a thud that makes students glance our way.

Byron exhales sharply but doesn't move away.

Martinez starts her lecture on market equilibrium, and I realize Byron doesn't have a pen — just like every other class for the past years. Some things never change. I pull an extra from my bag and slide it across the desk toward him, not looking at him directly.

He hesitates, then takes it. When I glance over, he's staring straight ahead, but there's a slight softening around his brow that wasn't there before.

We spend the next hour in silence, taking notes and pretending to be deeply fascinated by supply and demand curves. But something has shifted, a tentative bridge forming across the chasm of yesterday's betrayal. We've been friends too long to throw it all away for a girl.

As Martinez wraps up, I wonder why I couldn't do this with Sandy. Why it took a new, bigger mistake to put the old one in perspective. As I think more about it, the more I hate to admit that everything with Sandy was always a competition, a battle for attention and approval in a household where those things were conditional. Our parents pitted us against each other from day one — Sandy the athlete, me the academic. Never enough room for both of us to succeed in the same arena.

The realization is uncomfortable but necessary. If I want to move forward — really move forward, not just perform some temporary version of growth — I need to recognize these patterns and break them.

Class ends, and Byron and I pack up in continued silence. We exit together, still not speaking but not actively avoiding each other either. The hallway is crowded with students rushing to their next classes, and my stomach drops when I spot a familiar face head twenty feet ahead.

Saylor stands in the distance. She hasn't seen us yet, focused on something in her bag.

Byron and I exchange a glance, silent communication passing between us. Without a word, we veer to the right, taking the long way around to avoid her completely. It's petty, probably, but it feels like solidarity. Bros before… well, you know.

She looks up just as we're passing, her expression shifting from surprise to hurt to resignation in the span of seconds. I feel a brief twinge of something — regret? guilt? — but push it aside. She made her opinion of me perfectly clear through Byron, and I'm not going to waste energy pursuing someone who thinks I'm pathetic and insecure. Someone who would lie to my face after I tried to convince her that honesty was the only path forward.

As we continue down the hall, Byron finally breaks his silence. "You didn't have to give me a pen."

"You never have one," I reply, the familiar exchange almost comforting in its predictability.

"I'll give it back after class on Wednesday," he says, which is as close to forgiveness as I'm likely to get right now.

"Keep it. I've got more."

He nods, the gesture containing multitudes. We're not back to normal. But we're not not, either. And right now, that's enough.

Chapter 12

I see them before they see me, the familiar rhythm of their stride as they exit Martinez's Econ class. Byron, shorter but broader, his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. Cade, tall and ramrod straight, always looking like he has somewhere important to be. The way they move together speaks of years of friendship — an easy, unspoken synchronicity that I used to admire from the outside.

I reach for something inside my bag, pretending as if I hadn't spotted them yet. Then I feel their eyes catch on me, and something inside me turns to stone.

Without a word, they swerve — a perfectly coordinated adjustment of their trajectory that takes them wide around me, as if I'm surrounded by some invisible barrier. Neither looks at me directly. Neither acknowledges my existence. They just navigate around the obstacle that is me.

My breath catches in my throat, my fingers freezing on the sociology textbook I've been retrieving from my locker. Time slows, each second stretching painfully as they pass. The hallway fills with white noise, the chatter of other students fading beneath the roaring in my ears.

They're friends again? After everything — after the betrayal, the confrontation, the horrible words Byron hurled at both of us — they've simply reconciled. As if none of it mattered.

As if I didn't matter.

I've become a blip, a temporary disruption in their brotherhood that's now been smoothed over. Forgotten.

The textbook slips from my numb fingers, landing with a thud that no one but me seems to notice. I feel hollowed out, carved empty by the indifference in their careful avoidance. I knew they'd be angry. Expected disgust, judgment, even hatred. But this? This deliberate erasure? It cuts deeper than any shouted accusation ever could.

My phone is in my hand before I register pulling it from my pocket, fingers flying across the screen in a message to the only people I can trust right now.

Saylor:Just watched Byron and Cade walk past me in perfect unison. Neither looked at me. They're friends again??? What the actual fuck?

The response comes almost immediately, my phone vibrating with incoming messages.

Mina:Wait, WHAT? After everything??

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