Page 8 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

I rush out before he can see the tears forming in my eyes.

Art History lectures usually calm me down. The professor's voice has a soothing quality, and normally I'd be taking detailed notes about Impressionist techniques. Today, I can barely focus on the slides of Monet's water lilies.

My phone burns a hole in my bag.

I know what I need to do.

Twenty minutes into class, while the professor discusses brushstrokes, I pull out my phone under my desk. My fingers hover over the keyboard for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds.

We need to talk. I'm done. This isn't working anymore.

Delete.

Byron, I can't do this anymore. We're over.

Delete.

You called me a bitch for disliking someone who cheats. You defend him over me. We're done.

My thumb hovers over send. Just do it, Saylor. Rip off the band-aid.

I hit send and immediately turn my phone face-down, shoving it back in my bag. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure the girl next to me can hear it.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur. I catch fragments about light and shadow, about capturing moments in time. Ironic, considering I just ended the past year of moments with a text message.

When class ends, I take my time packing up. Other students file out, chatting about weekend plans. Normal people having normal days. Not people who just nuked their relationship via text.

Outside, I find a bench in the courtyard and finally check my phone. Seven messages from Byron.

What?Saylor, come on.

Can we talk about this?

You're seriously breaking up with me over TEXT?

Because I defended my friend?

This is bullshit.

Call me.

I stare at the screen until the words blur. No tears come. Just a hollow feeling in my chest, like someone scooped out my insides and left me empty.

My fingers move on autopilot:Yes, I'm seriously breaking up with you over text. You said I was a bitch for having an opinion. You defend someone who is a cheater instead of trying to understand where I'm coming from. You haven't touched me in weeks. You choose video games over me. This has been over for months, but I'm just now admitting it.

Send.

His response is immediate.So that's it? One year and you're throwing it away because of Cade?

I almost laugh. Of course, he thinks this is about Cade. Not about the ignored texts, the forgotten dates, the way he looks through me instead of at me.

This isn't about Cade. This is about us. Or the lack of us. I'm done pretending everything's fine.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Fine. If that's what you want.

That's it. One year reduced to "Fine."

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