Page 57 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

She's intoxicating. That's the only word that fits. Her quick wit, the way she challenges me, how she never backs down from an argument — all the qualities that used to infuriate me now fascinate me. The fact that I can't have her openly, can't claim her in public, only intensifies the pull. Forbidden fruit and all that.

The guilt, when it comes, isn't about the lying itself. It's about how little the lying bothers me when I'm with her.

This is exactly what I'm thinking about when I knock on Byron's door Sunday night. After spending the day with Saylor at my place — ostensibly studying, though very little academic progress was made — I dropped her at her apartment and came straight here to continue to clear this air between Byron and me. This double life is becoming second nature, which should probably concern me more than it does.

Byron answers, hair disheveled, eyes slightly bloodshot from what I'm guessing is hours of gaming. He looks at me for a beat, then walks away, leaving the door open behind him. I stand in the threshold, uncertain if this is an invitation or dismissal.

"You just going to stand there?" he calls over his shoulder, dropping onto his couch and grabbing a controller.

The apartment is exactly as it was the last time I was here — slightly messy in that distinctly bachelor way, empty pizza boxes stacked on the kitchen counter, gaming setup dominating the living room. A space I used to feel completely at home in, now tinged with the awkwardness of our fractured friendship.

I close the door behind me and take a seat on the adjacent couch, the one that's always been mine during our gaming marathons. Byron doesn't look at me, just tosses a second controller in my direction. The screen shows Call of Duty paused mid-match.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you?" he asks, the first almost-normal thing he's said to me in weeks.

"Yeah, right," I respond automatically.

We play in relative silence, broken only by occasional cursing when one of us gets taken out or brief strategy discussions. It's not the same as before — the easy banter, the inside jokes, the comfortable silences — but it's something. It's a start.

As the night wears on, as the familiarity of this ritual settles over us, I find myself relaxing into it. We're not talking about what happened, not addressing the Saylor-shaped elephant in the room, but we're existing in the same space without hostility. For now, that feels like enough.

Around eleven, I set down the controller. "Got early practice tomorrow," I say, stretching as I stand. "See you in class tomorrow?"

Byron nods, eyes still on the screen. "Yeah."

One word. No questions about where I've been, what I've been doing, who I've been with. No accusations or recriminations. Just "yeah." The simplicity of it, the normalcy, feels like a gift I don't deserve.

As I walk to my car, I wonder if this is how it's going to be now — polite distance, surface-level interactions, the deep bond we once shared relegated to memory. The thought sits like a stone in my stomach, heavy and cold.

But then my phone lights up with a text from Saylor —Can't stop thinking about today— and the stone dissolves, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my chest. I'm caught between worlds, between loyalties, between versions of myself.

"I can't stay away from her," I admit to Sandy during morning stretches. The words tumble out before I can stop them, the secret too large to contain any longer.

He doesn't need to ask whoheris. "Is that a good thing or bad thing?"

The question is deceptively simple. Good for who? Bad by what metric? "I don't know," I answer honestly. "All I know is she's got me twisted up inside. Can't get enough of her—"Her mind, her laugh, the way she looks at me like I'm simultaneously the best and worst thing that's ever happened to her.

Sandy smiles slightly as he switches legs. "If she's all in, it'll work itself out. Look at me and Hannah."

I sigh heavily, rolling my shoulders to release the tension that always builds when I think about this situation. "Why do relationships have to be so fucking complicated?"

He laughs, not denying it.

"She told me I had to choose. Her or Byron."

"She did?"

"And I told her we'd keep us a secret. It's been a week. Yesterday I went to Byron's to play video games after dropping her off."

Sandy stares at me for a moment, then laughs — not mockingly, but with genuine amusement. "Does he know?"

"About me and Saylor? Hell no."

"You're playing with fire, little brother." He pulls me to my feet as Coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of warm-ups. "Word of advice? Maybe stop being friends with Byron."

The suggestion hits hard. I didn't bring it up so that he could give me this advice. I shake my head. "I can't do that. We've been through too much. You don't just throw away a friendship because—"

"Because you're sleeping with his girlfriend? His ex, whatever. Yeah, you kind of do." Sandy's expression turns serious. "You're trying to have it both ways, and neither of them is going to like it when they find out."

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