Page 10

I push open the apartment door, my vision blurred by tears that won't stop coming. The familiar smell of cinnamon from Chloe's perpetually burning candles envelops me, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of Cade's car. The living room comes into focus slowly – our mismatched furniture, the throw blankets draped haphazardly across the couch, the stack of textbooks on the coffee table. Home. Safety.

Mina and Chloe look up simultaneously from their spots on the couch, their expressions shifting from casual interest to alarm in the span of a heartbeat. They're on their feet before I can even close the door behind me.

"Oh, Say," Chloe whispers, reaching me first, her arms wrapping around my shoulders.

Mina joins the embrace without a word, her familiar perfume mingling with Chloe's floral shampoo. I collapse into them, the weight of the morning finally breaking through whatever brittle composure I'd maintained in Cade's presence. My sobs are ugly and raw, my body shaking with the force of them.

They guide me to the couch, one on each side like sentinels guarding against any further hurt. The cushions envelop me, worn and familiar, as Chloe presses a box of tissues into my hands.

"What happened?" Mina asks gently, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You told us about hooking up with Cade, but then he showed up here and you both left…"

I take a shuddering breath, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. How do I explain the catastrophe of what just happened? The humiliation of facing Byron, the cruel truths he revealed, the cold distance in Cade's eyes afterward?

"We told Byron," I manage, my voice scratchy from crying. "About last night. About Cade and I."

Chloe's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "How did he take it?"

I shake my head as tears fall. "How do you think? He was devastated. Furious. Said horrible things. True things."

"He was angry," Mina says, her tone careful. "People say things they don't mean when they're hurt."

I shake my head, fresh tears threatening. "No, that's just it. He meant every word. And he was right. What kind of person sleeps with their boyfriend's best friend that fast after breaking up?"

"Ex-boyfriend," Chloe corrects quietly.

The technicality offers little comfort. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Not even enough time for the sheets to cool, as Byron so eloquently pointed out.

"I hate Cade for making me do this," I say, the resentment rising like bile in my throat. "We didn't have to tell Byron. We could have kept it between us. A stupid, drunken mistake that no one had to know about."

This morning in my bedroom, Cade had seemed so certain, so righteous about facing the consequences. Easy for him to take the moral high ground when he wasn't the one being torn apart by Byron's words. The memory of Cade's face when Byron revealed what I'd said about him sends a fresh pang through my chest – the blank mask that settled over his features, hiding whatever hurt or anger must have been churning beneath.

"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?"

I'm not sure what lessons I'm supposed to learn from this particular disaster, but I appreciate her attempt to find a silver lining.

The courts are empty, just as Chloe predicted. We claim one at the far end, dropping our water bottles and keys on the sideline bench. The weight of the paddle in my hand grounds me, connects me to my body in a way that pushes mental turmoil to the background.

"Ready to get your butt kicked?" Chloe calls from the other side of the net, bouncing slightly on her toes.

I manage a genuine smile for the first time all day. "In your dreams."

She serves, and the hollow plastic ball makes its distinctive plinking sound as it sails over the net. I return it with more force than necessary, channeling my frustration into the swing. Chloe volleys it back, and suddenly we're moving, our bodies finding rhythm in the simple back-and-forth.

With each rally, each point, the knot in my chest loosens incrementally. Sweat beads on my forehead, my breathing quickens, and for these blessed moments, there is nothing but the game, the ball, the next point to win.

I know this won't solve anything. But being beneath the fading afternoon sun, with my best friend laughing across the net, I find a small pocket of peace in the chaos I've created.