Page 66 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"I can't," I manage, backing toward the door. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Say…wait." He rises too, desperation clear in his voice. "Please don't go. I just got dinner. I ordered your favorite — Thai curry, extra spicy."

Guilt washes over me even as I start to sweat. He remembered that random detail. After feeling so fucking invisible to him, I'm surprised he even knows where to get my favorite curry.

"Just dinner," I agree reluctantly, moving back to the couch but choosing the far end this time.

Relief floods his features. "Thank you."

We sit in tense silence as he sets up the food. He arranges the containers on the coffee table. And as I watch him, I realize that I was never in love with Byron, that I was only with him because he asked me out. God, that is so pathetic of me. My jitters finally die down as he offers me a plate.

I force myself to take a bite despite my churning stomach. The food is exactly as I like it, which only intensifies my guilt. Byron is trying. Really trying. And here I am, secretly banging his best friend, currently lying to both of them in different ways.

The sound of a key in the lock freezes us both. There's a knock on it briefly. I take a bite of my food and the door swings open, revealing Cade. His expression morphing from casual to shocked as he takes in the scene before him — Byron and me, dinner spread between us.

He's holding a video game remote like he comes here often.

Time seems to suspend as our eyes lock across the room, the truth of my betrayal laid bare in this single, devastating moment.

"Cade?"

Chapter 19

The door swings open, and time grinds to a halt. My vision narrows to a pinpoint focus on the scene before me — Saylor perched on Byron's couch, takeout containers spread between them like it's fucking date night. I stand frozen for a second. This is the same Saylor who texted me earlier claiming she needed a night with her roommates. The same Saylor whose taste still lingers on my lips from last night.

My lungs constrict, throat tightening as if someone's wrapped invisible fingers around my windpipe. The betrayal hits in waves — first shock, then confusion, finally settling into a smoldering anger that burns low in my gut.

Saylor's face transforms when she sees me — eyes widening, color draining from her cheeks, her body recoiling as if struck. She looks everywhere but at me, her gaze darting around the room like a trapped animal seeking escape. Byron's reaction is slower but more direct — surprise melting into cold anger, jaw tightening, shoulders squaring. Ready for confrontation.

The rational part of my brain screams at me to back away. Close the door. Walk out. Deal with this betrayal when we're not all trapped in the emotional minefield of Byron's apartment. But something darker takes control — a petty, wounded pride that refuses to be the one who retreats.

I've spent my life living up to people's worst expectations of me. The entitled Connolly brother. The arrogant know-it-all. The guy who takes whatever he wants without consideration for consequences. Why stop now?

"Cade?" she whispers, stunned.

"Saylor."

I step into the room, making my presence unbearable to the both of them.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that echoes like a gunshot in the tense silence. I cross the room with deliberate slowness, each footstep on the worn carpet a declaration of war. The empty couch opposite them beckons, and I lower myself onto it with casualness, stretching my legs out before me as if I've been invited to this little dinner party.

Byron's glare could cut diamond. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his thighs. Saylor has her body turned away from me completely, presenting only her rigid profile, shoulders hunched as if attempting to physically shield herself from my presence. The curve of her neck, the line of her jaw — features I've traced with my fingertips, my lips — now angled away. It's quite funny, isn't it?

Seconds tick by, stretching into God knows how long. The only sound is our breathing — Byron's short and sharp with anger, Saylor's quick and shallow with anxiety, my own measured and deliberate. I let the silence grow, thicken, become its own entity in the room. A small, mean part of me — a part I'm not proud of — savors in this shit. I enjoy seeing their discomfort.

"What's going on here?" I finally ask, my voice cutting through the quiet like a blade — deceptively soft, controlled.

"You need to leave." Byron's response is immediate, loaded with venom and warning.

I cock my head to the side, looking at the profile of my little hater. "Is that what you want, Saylor?"

Her name in my mouth seems to physically impact her, a visible flinch rippling across her shoulders. Still, she won't turn. Won't speak. Won't even acknowledge the question. Her gaze remains fixed on the floor, as if the worn carpet is going to save her.

Her silence fuels something ugly inside me. The Cade I've been trying to evolve beyond claws his way to the surface — the version of me who lashes out when hurt, who inflicts pain rather than admitting vulnerability.

"So," I say, leaning back deeper into the cushions, "did Saylor tell you?"

Her entire body goes rigid, breath catching audibly. The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Still, her eyes remain glued to the floor, fingers twisting in her lap.

---