Page 13 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Hannah:Sorry, been swamped with schoolwork. Nothing happened last night. Didn't see Cade. Talk later?

It's so far from the truth it's almost laughable, but it's all I can manage right now. I can't face her questions, can't risk breaking down and telling her everything. I need to keep this secret buried deep where it can't hurt anyone else.

When I get back to my dorm, I collapse onto my bed again. The tears come instantly, as if they were just waiting for me to be alone. I cry until my throat is raw, until my eyes burn, until I have no tears left. And then I cry some more, dry, painful sobs that shake my entire body.

I cry through the night, through the next day, missing my classes, ignoring more texts from everyone. I can't face the world, can't face myself. I've become someone I don't recognize, someone who sleeps with her boyfriend's brother and then lies about it.

By the second day after the breakup, I've ignored so many texts from Cade that I should have expected what comes next. But I'm still not prepared when he finds me outside my Comparative Literature class, his face a storm cloud of anger and hurt.

The moment I see him, my world stops spinning.

Everything freezes—my breath, my heartbeat, my thoughts—as a tidal wave of emotions crashes over me. I physically stagger backward, my back hitting the brick wall of the humanities building as the full weight of what I've done manifests in the form of Cade standing before me.

His eyes—so like his brother's and yet completely different—are red-rimmed and furious. He's been crying too. The knowledge pierces me like a physical pain, radiating from my chest outward until even my fingertips ache with guilt.

"What the hell, Hannah?" His voice is low, controlled, but trembling with emotion.

I can't speak. My mouth opens but no words come out. I'm drowning in shame, in the knowledge that beneath his anger is a confusion I can never clarify. My skin feels too tight, burning with the memory of his brother's touch, and I want to tear it off, to somehow shed the person who did this terrible thing.

"You've been ignoring me for two days," he continues, moving closer. "You break up with me over text with no explanation, and then you just disappear?"

The disgust I feel for myself is overwhelming. It coils in my stomach, writhes up my throat, threatens to spill out in a confession I know I can't make. I've never hated myself more than in this moment, looking at the pain in his eyes and knowing I'm the cause of it. And beneath that self-loathing is a deeper shame—the realization that even now, even here, some traitorous part of me is comparing him to his brother, noting the differences in their build, their stance, the timbre of their voices.

"I can't do this here," I manage to whisper, my voice a broken thing.

"Then where? When?" His voice rises slightly. "You won't answer my calls, you won't reply to my texts. What am I supposed to do, Hannah? Just accept that it's over with no explanation?"

Tears threaten again, but I blink them back. I don't deserve the release of crying. I don't deserve anything but this moment, this confrontation, this consequence of my actions.

"There's nothing to explain," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady, cold even. It's the only way I can get through this without breaking down completely. "It's just not working for me anymore."

"Bullshit!" he hisses, his fist connecting with the wall beside my head. I flinch but hold my ground. "Three days ago, you were texting me about how excited you were to see me. And now suddenly it's 'not working'? What happened, Hannah?"

What happened? I betrayed you in the worst possible way. I ruined everything good between us because I was too impatient, too reckless, too eager to move forward without making sure I was in the right bed, with the right man.

"Nothing," I say, the lie tasting like ash. "I just realized I'm not in the right place for a relationship right now."

"Look me in the eyes and tell me there's no one else," he demands, his voice breaking.

I force myself to meet his gaze, to hold it steady even as I feel myself crumbling inside. "There's no one else, Cade." Another lie, because how do I tell him the "someone else" is his own brother?

Something in my eyes must convince him, or maybe it's just the coldness in my voice, because his shoulders slump slightly.

"I don't understand," he says, and the anger is giving way to hurt now, which is somehow worse. "I thought we were good together. I thought you were happy."

"I was," I admit, and that at least is true. "But I'm not anymore. I'm sorry."

"Sorry," he repeats, the word hollow. "You're sorry. That's it? That's all I get after two months?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. The mask of indifference I'm wearing feels like it might crack at any moment, revealing the broken, guilty mess beneath.

He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, searching my face for some clue, some explanation that makes sense. I hold myself rigid, afraid that if I move, if I soften even slightly, I'll collapse into his arms and confess everything.

Finally, he steps back, his expression hardening.

"Fine," he says. "If that's how you want it, fine. But don't come crawling back when you realize what you threw away."

He turns then, his movement sharp with anger, and slams his fist into the wall one more time before storming off. I watch him go, rooted to the spot, fragments of my heart scattering with each step he takes away from me.

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