Page 29 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

The room spins slightly as I sit up, squinting at the timestamp. 6:43 AM. Byron never calls me this much, so something's wrong. Very wrong.

My mind instantly jumps to Saylor. She was drunk last night — not just tipsy, but the kind of drunk where stupid decisions are made and secrets spill. The kind of drunk where calling your very recent ex at midnight seems like a brilliant idea.

Did she tell him?

I scroll through the rest of his messages, looking for clues.

Call me when you get this.

No accusations. Nofuck you, you piece of shitorwhat the fuck is fucking wrong with youor any of the things I'd expect if he knew I slept with his ex-girlfriend less than 48 hours after they broke up. But something's definitely up.

I drop the phone on my bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. The cocky certainty I usually wear like armor feels paper-thin this morning. I want to respect Saylor's wishes — to keep what happened between us — but this is Byron. My best friend. The guy who I can call for anything. The guy who would stay up all night quizzing me before finals. The guy who drove four hours to pick me up when my car broke down during spring break last year. The guy who listened nonstop when shit went down with Hannah and Sanderson.

And this is how I repay him.

I force myself into the shower, letting cold water beat against my skin as if it could wash away the stupid impulsiveness that's been driving my decisions lately. This whole Hannah thing really fucked me up, and I've been an entitled condescending asshole ever since. But hell, I recognize that I've just been spiraling after Hannah, and after last night? The audacity I have to treat my best friend like this when he’s been nothing but a good friend, I know I really am a piece of shit just like my father. By the time I step out of the shower, I'm shivering and my mind no clearer.

I dress quickly, jeans and a hoodie, trying to ignore the way my phone continues to light up with Byron's calls. I need to talk to Saylor first. Need to know what she said, what she remembers, what she wants to do.

Suddenly, I feel like Sanderson. Fuck, this is a shitshow.

Jake answers on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.

"Connolly? It's not even eight, man."

"I need Mina's address," I say, skipping the pleasantries. "Where do they live?"

He chuckles, and I can practically see the smirk on his face. "Didn't get enough of Saylor last night, huh?"

My blood freezes. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on. You two disappeared for what, an hour?"

Fuck.I'm in deep shit if he already put that together.

I say, "It's an emergency. I need to talk to Saylor, and I don't have her number."

That sobers him. "Emergency?"

"Fuck, bro. All I can say right now is I pulled a Sanderson, okay? Details, later. Address, now."

"Shit, dude. Alright." He's quiet for a moment, then sighs. "Cedar Park Apartments. Building C, unit 308. But if Mina asks, you didn't get it from me."

"Thanks, man." I end the call and grab my keys. "I owe you one."

The drive to Cedar Park takes twelve minutes that feel like twelve hours. Every possible scenario plays out in my head like a suspenseful movie gone wrong. Byron knowing everything. Byron knowing nothing. Byron knowing something but not who. Byron at my apartment wanting to kill me. Byron telling Sandy. Sandy humiliating me. Jake telling the team. Coach kicking me off before I even get a chance to play. Saylor laughing at me, believing that I deserve it for the piece of shit that I am.

I inhale, trying to calm my anxiety. You never know how people will react to being betrayed. And I don't know if Saylor will even be on my side. I fucked her knowing how much she hates me. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, checking my mirrors nervously like Byron might be following me. There are a thousand ways to handle this. With how much Byron is calling me, I could lie about not knowing he's been calling. Say I lost my phone. Say I went home early from the party. Say I never saw Saylor last night.

But everyone saw us talking. Morrison, Jake, probably half the team. And I'm a terrible liar — I can only pretend for a short amount of time before it starts to eat at me. It's one thing to omit truths, another entirely to fabricate them.

By the time I park outside Building C, my heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror — I still look good even while feeling like shit. Then I glance around to make sure Byron isn't here because that would be my fucking nightmare.

I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor, find unit 308, and knock. I'm here to know the plan, and a part of me hopes she doesn't hate me even more now. It will be harder if she doesn't remember last night.

The door opens to reveal Mina, her expression shifting from alarm to recognition to wariness in the span of seconds. She sighs, steps back, and waves me in without a word. By the look on her face, I think she knows everything.

The apartment is small but neat, with mismatched furniture that somehow works together. Chloe sits at a tiny kitchen table, fork poised over a stack of pancakes, her eyebrows raised at my entrance. And there, curled on the couch with a mug clutched between her hands, is Saylor.

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