Page 37 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"I spent the last year hating him for being exactly what Byron said – arrogant, entitled, selfish. And then I sleep with him once and suddenly he's my moral compass? Telling me what kind of person I want to be?"

The unfairness of it all washes over me anew. The worst part is, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers, he wasn't wrong. Lying to Byron would have been easier, but not better. Not right.

"It's done now," Mina says pragmatically. "You can't change it. You told the truth, and that counts for something."

"Barely," I murmur, thinking of Byron's face, of Cade's cold silence on the drive home.

"Here's what we're going to do," Chloe announces, standing up with the determined efficiency that makes her such a good pre-med student. "We're going to make tea, get our homework done, and not let this ruin the rest of our Sunday. You made a mistake, Say. It happens. The world didn't end."

It feels like it did, though. Like something fundamental has shifted, leaving me unmoored in a landscape I no longer recognize. But Chloe's right – sitting here wallowing won't change anything.

An hour later, we're sprawled across the living room with our notes and laptops. Chloe works through her biology problem set, Mina pecks away at an essay on feminist literary theory, and I stare blankly at my statistics homework. The numbers swim before my eyes, refusing to arrange themselves into any meaningful pattern.

The methodical scratch of Chloe's pencil, the soft clicking of Mina's keyboard – these familiar sounds gradually ease the tight knot of anxiety in my chest. This is normal. This is real. Not the drama of this morning or the heated intensity of last night with Cade.

"Do you want to play pickleball later?" Chloe asks suddenly, looking up from her textbook. "The courts on south campus should be empty since everyone's cramming for midterms."

I blink at her, surprised by the mundane suggestion. Pickleball?

But maybe that's exactly what I need – something simple, physical, completely disconnected from the emotional minefield of the past twenty-four hours.

"Yeah," I say, the decision forming as I speak. "Actually, that sounds great."

Mina raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? I thought you'd be in hermit mode for at least a week."

"What's the alternative? Hide in my room and replay every horrible moment in my head? No thanks." The conviction in my voice surprises even me. "I refuse to let this define my entire week…or life."

Chloe beams, clearly pleased with my response. "That's my girl. We'll go around four, before it gets dark."

We return to our assignments, but my mind keeps drifting back to Cade. To the way he looked at me in the car, like he was seeing me for the first time – and didn't particularly like what he saw. The thought sends a pang through me that infuriates me.

After another fruitless attempt to focus on my statistics problems, I retreat to my bedroom. The lingering smell of air freshener reminds me of this morning's humiliating bout of sickness. I crack open a window, letting in the crisp spring air.

My bed calls to me, still unmade from my hasty departure with Cade. I grab my laptop and settle against the headboard, pulling up Netflix in search of something – anything – to distract me. I choose a mindless action movie, something with explosions and car chases and not a hint of romance.

As the opening credits roll, I try to dissect the hollow feeling expanding in my chest. Is it guilt? Shame? Regret? All of those, certainly, but something else too. Something that feels dangerously like disappointment.

For one brief, impossible moment in Cade's arms, it had felt like the beginning of something. Not just physical attraction, but a connection I never expected to find with someone I'd spent a long time dismissing. The way he listened when I talked about my father. The gentle understanding in his eyes.

Then Byron's words shattered whatever bond we'd begun to form. I can still see Cade's face when Byron threw my cruel assessments back at him – the careful blank expression that couldn't quite hide the hurt beneath. I wonder if he'll ever look at me the same way again. If I even want him to.

The protagonist on screen dives away from an explosion, and I force myself to focus on the plot. No more wallowing. No more what-ifs. What's done is done.

At three-thirty, Chloe knocks on my door, already dressed in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"Ready for some pickleball therapy?" she asks, twirling her paddle.

I close my laptop, grateful for the interruption from my circling thoughts. "Give me five minutes."

I change quickly, pulling on leggings and a sports bra beneath a loose tank top. The simple act of preparing for physical activity centers me, gives me purpose. This is forward motion. This is choosing not to drown in my mistakes.

The walk to the courts takes us across the quad, where students lounge on blankets enjoying the spring sunshine. I scan their faces reflexively, dreading the sight of Byron or Cade. But they're nowhere to be seen, and relief washes through me.

"You know," Chloe says as we approach the courts, "whatever happens with Byron and Cade, it doesn't define you. One bad decision doesn't make you a bad person."

I glance at her, surprised by the perceptiveness of her comment. "Even if it was a really bad decision?"

She laughs, the sound bright and untroubled. "It's going to be okay, Saylor. The bigger the mistake, the more you learn, right?"

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