Page 41 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

Chloe:No way. Are you sure? Maybe they just didn't see you.

Saylor:They saw me. They literally changed direction to avoid me.

Mina:That's some bullshit. Bros before hos I guess

Saylor:Suddenly my existence doesn't matter. I'm just the ho who came between them for about 5 minutes

Chloe:This is why men are trash. Want to hit the pickleball courts again after class? Good way to work out frustration

Saylor:I need something more violent and destructive, but pickleball will have to do

Mina:Can't join today. Got a study group. But kick some ass for me

Chloe:Meet you at 4? I'll bring extra balls. You can smash them into oblivion

Saylor:It's a date

I slide my phone back into my pocket, trying to ignore the acidic burn of humiliation in my chest. The hallway continues to bustle around me, students rushing to their next classes, laughing, complaining, existing — all of them unaware of the small apocalypse happening inside me.

I gather my fallen textbook, clutching it to my chest like armor. I have fifteen minutes to get to Developmental Psychology, fifteen minutes to pull myself together and pretend I'm not completely unraveling.

The walk across campus feels surreal, autumn sunlight casting everything in a golden glow that feels mockingly cheerful. How dare the world look so beautiful when I feel so terrible? I pass the student center, avoiding looking toward the coffee shop where Byron and I used to meet between classes. Avoid glancing at the oak tree where we would all hang out.

Memory landmines everywhere, waiting to detonate with each careless step.

By the time I reach Dev Psych, I've composed myself enough to slide into my usual seat near the back without drawing attention. I pull out my notebook, flip to a fresh page, and write the date at the top with mechanical precision.

For the next seventy-five minutes, I take meticulous notes on attachment theory and childhood trauma, letting the familiar rhythm of lecture and note-taking numb me into something resembling normalcy. The irony isn't lost on me when Professor Williams talks about avoidant attachment styles and fear of intimacy. I almost laugh out loud — a reaction that would definitely get me some strange looks from the classmates around me.

When class ends, I have two hours before meeting Chloe. Two hours to fill with something other than obsessing over the hallway incident. I head to the library, find a quiet corner, and attempt to lose myself in statistics homework again. The problems are complex enough to demand my full attention, a welcome distraction from the replay of Byron and Cade's synchronized avoidance maneuver that keeps looping through my mind.

At a quarter to four, I pack up my barely touched homework and head for the courts. Chloe is already there when I arrive, a canvas bag bulging with pickleballs beside her on the bench.

"Special delivery," she announces, patting the bag. "I borrowed these from the rec center. Told them we're practicing for intramurals."

"Are we?" I ask, dropping my backpack next to hers.

"We could be," she shrugs. "But mostly I thought you might enjoy smashing the hell out of something without legal consequences."

For the first time since the hallway incident, I feel a genuine smile tug at my lips. "You know me too well."

"That's what best friends are for." She tosses me a paddle. "Now, let me see your angry face."

I contort my features into an exaggerated scowl that makes her laugh.

"Perfect. Channel that energy into destroying these innocent balls."

We move to opposite sides of the court, and Chloe starts feeding me balls one by one. I swing with increasing force, sending them flying across the court, some sailing way beyond the boundaries. Each hit vibrates up my arm, a satisfying physical sensation that grounds me in my body instead of my swirling thoughts.

"So," Chloe says casually, tossing another ball my way, "want to talk about it?"

I whack the ball with particular force, sending it arcing high over the fence. "Not much to say. They've decided I'm not worth anything."

"Their loss," she says firmly.

"Is it though?" I hit another ball, this one just barely catching the edge of the court. "Maybe they're right. Maybe I am exactly what Byron said. A fake, a phony, playing games with people."

"That's bullshit and you know it." Chloe's tone makes me look up. Her expression is protective. "You made a mistake. That doesn't define who you are. And Cade––"

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