Page 80 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"It'll be fine, baby," I assure her, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "First of many."

We move toward the voices, hands still linked. Sandy enters the kitchen first, looking relaxed in casual clothes rather than his usual athletic gear. Hannah follows, her smile a bit hesitant but genuine.

"Hey," Sandy says, clapping me on the shoulder. His eyes move to Saylor, warming with recognition. "Good to see you again, Saylor."

"You too," she replies, her grip on my hand tightening slightly.

Hannah steps forward, her gaze moving between us with curious assessment. "Hi, Saylor. It's good to see you."

"Likewise," Saylor says, and I detect no falseness in their polite smiles.

Hannah turns to me next, a ghost of our shared history passing between us. We were friends before we were anything else, a fact I'd nearly forgotten in the drama of our breakup and its aftermath.

I extend my fist toward her, calling a friendly truce. "Hey, Han."

Her eyes crinkle with surprised amusement at the gesture, at the nickname I haven't used since the fight. After a moment's hesitation, she bumps her knuckles against mine. "Hi, Cade."

The exchange is briefer, simpler, less awkward than I anticipated. Looking at her now, I can appreciate objectively that she's beautiful, that we once shared something. But the emotional charge that once accompanied those observations is absent. What remains instead is a fondness tinged with nostalgia, like seeing an old friend.

It's crazy, really — even when we were dating, even when we were physically intimate, mine and Hannah's connection always had this quality of comfortable friendship at its core. Nothing like the consuming fire I feel with Saylor, the challenge and companionship and desire all tangled together into something I can barely comprehend, let alone define.

"Dinner's ready," my mother announces, carrying a platter to the table. "Sandy, would you open the wine?"

I grin at him. Momma's boy being put to work. I can sit back and relax for the rest of the night now.

We arrange ourselves around the table — my mother at the head, Sandy and Hannah on one side, Saylor and me on the other. The setting sun casts long shadows through the windows, painting everything in warm golden light. The roast beef is perfectly cooked, the potatoes crisp, the conversation flowing with surprising ease.

My mother asks Saylor about her studies, her future plans, her family back home. Sandy shares stories from the hockey team. Hannah talks about her volunteering at the exotic animal shelter, her excitement palpable as she describes working with cool animals.

Throughout it all, Saylor's hand occasionally finds mine beneath the table, a silent communication of support and connection. I listen more than I speak, observing the interactions around me with newfound appreciation for these people who form the foundation of my life.

"So, when did you two start dating?" my mother asks eventually, the question directed at both of us. "Sandy mentioned it was recent."

Saylor and I exchange glances, a silent negotiation about how much to reveal.

"A few weeks ago, officially," I say carefully. "But we've known each other for a while."

"Through Byron, right?" Hannah asks, clearly trying to place the connection.

"Yes," Saylor confirms. "We were in the same friend group, though Cade and I didn't exactly get along at first."

Sandy laughs at this understatement. I would normally kick him under the table, but instead, I laugh too.

"The best relationships often start that way," my mom observes with a knowing smile. "Your father and I couldn't stand each other when we first met."

I want to add,and you still can't. But then Sandy would probably kick me under the table, and I'm not trying to be an asshole at dinner.

The comparison to my parents' relationship should alarm me, given its eventual implosion. Instead, I find myself focusing on the differences — the honesty Saylor and I have fought for, the real communication we're learning together, the way we challenge each other to grow rather than shrinking to accommodate each other's flaws.

"Well, I'm glad you finally figured it out," Sandy says, raising his glass in a toast. "Took you long enough."

"Whatever that means," my mom replies, just wanting to take a drink.

"Where is dad?" I ask.

My mom shrugs. "Living his life, doing his thing." Her eyes are empty as she speaks, and I normally don't acknowledge that pain.

"You deserve more, mom," I say. "This house is perfect. I’m happy for you."

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