Page 70 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

This night air hits my tear-stained face like a slap, shockingly cold after the heated tension of the stairwell. I walk blindly, no destination in mind beyond away. Away from Byron's apartment. Away from Cade's knowing eyes. Away from the wreckage I've created with my indecision and my lies.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I can't face anyone right now — not Cade, not Byron, not even Mina or Chloe with their well-meaning concern. I need silence. Space. Time to process the magnitude of what just happened.

The campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at parties or tucked away studying. I find myself at the edge of the pond near the science building, the water still and dark, reflecting the half-moon above. I sink onto a bench, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline crash leaving me hollow and weak.

My lip continues to throb, a constant reminder of the physical altercation I witnessed and caused tonight. I touch it gingerly, fingers coming away with a fresh smear of blood. It seems fitting somehow, this physical manifestation of the emotional damage I've inflicted.

The truth is a bitter pill: I created this situation. Every step of the way, I made choices that led to this exact moment. Sleeping with Cade after breaking up with Byron. Continuing to see him secretly. Lying to both of them when honesty would have saved so much pain.

And for what? To avoid discomfort? To maintain some illusion of control?

My phone buzzes again, persistent. With a sigh, I pull it out, expecting to see Cade's name on the screen. Instead, it's Mina.

You okay? It's getting late.

The simple concern breaks something inside me. A sob escapes, then another, until I'm crying openly on the bench, alone in the darkness.

When the tears finally subside, I text back:Coming home. Need ice cream and a shoulder.

Her response is immediate:Both ready and waiting.

I rise from the bench on shaky legs, turning toward home — toward the comfort of friendship without expectations or demands. Tomorrow will require decisions, explanations, choices. But tonight, I just need the simplicity of being held while I fall apart.

As I walk, a strange sense of lightness begins to grow beneath the guilt and regret. The truth is finally out. No more lies, no more secrets. Just the consequences of my actions, painful as they may be.

Maybe that's the first step toward healing — acknowledging the damage done and accepting responsibility without excuses or deflection. Not running away but walking steadily forward into whatever comes next.

One painful, honest step at a time.

Chapter 21

I need to be alone.

Her words echo in my mind as I watch her disappear, each footstep taking her further from me. Every instinct screams at me to follow her, to make sure she's safe, to explain myself. But I force my feet to remain planted on the landing. She asked for space. I should respect that.

I'll give her five minutes.

Because the truth is, I can't give her that much space. Not tonight. Not after watching Byron's elbow connect with her face. Not after seeing the blood on her lip. Not after witnessing the pain in her eyes — pain I helped cause with my wounded pride and petty revenge.

My face throbs as I make my way out into the night. Each step sends fresh waves of pain through my ribs where Byron landed his most vicious blows. The metallic taste of blood lingers in my mouth, my split lip stinging in the cool evening air. But these physical discomforts are distant, secondary to the urgent need to find Saylor.

She won't go home immediately — she'll need time to collect herself first. But eventually, she'll return to her apartment, to Mina and Chloe and the safety they represent. That's where I need to be when she arrives.

When I finally arrive, my knuckles hesitate over the door. What if she's already here? What if she refuses to see me? What if this latest display of my worst qualities has finally convinced her I'm exactly who she always thought I was — arrogant, entitled, selfish, and not worth her time?

But the alternative — going home, crawling into bed, pretending tonight never happened — isn't an option. I need to see her. Need to know she's okay. Need to apologize for how I acted tonight.

I knock firmly, ignoring the pain that shoots through my bruised knuckles.

Mina answers, her expression shifting from annoyance to shock as she takes in my appearance. "Jesus Christ," she mutters, stepping back to let me in. "What happened to your face?"

"Is Saylor here?" I ask, ignoring her question as I scan the living room. The apartment is quiet, no sign of Saylor's presence.

"No," Mina says, crossing her arms. "She texted that she's on her way, though. Said something about needing ice cream and a shoulder." Her eyes narrow. "I'm guessing you know why."

I nod, moving toward the couch. "I'll wait for her."

"I didn't say you could—" Mina starts, but I've already settled onto the cushions, my body suddenly reminding me of every blow it absorbed tonight.

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