Page 17

One week into secretly dating Saylor Anderson, and my life has transformed in ways I never saw coming. The lying, the sneaking, the constant compartmentalizing — it should feel terrible, should weigh on me like a mountain of guilt. Sometimes it does. But then she'll smile at me across a crowded room, a private expression meant only for me, and suddenly the weight lifts like it was never there.

I've never been the guy who rearranges his life for a woman. Even with Hannah, I maintained my routines, my independence. But with Saylor, I find myself shifting plans, waking up earlier, staying up later — anything to be around her.

She's intoxicating. That's the only word that fits. Her quick wit, the way she challenges me, how she never backs down from an argument — all the qualities that used to infuriate me now fascinate me. The fact that I can't have her openly, can't claim her in public, only intensifies the pull. Forbidden fruit and all that.

The guilt, when it comes, isn't about the lying itself. It's about how little the lying bothers me when I'm with her.

This is exactly what I'm thinking about when I knock on Byron's door Sunday night. After spending the day with Saylor at my place — ostensibly studying, though very little academic progress was made — I dropped her at her apartment and came straight here to continue to clear this air between Byron and me. This double life is becoming second nature, which should probably concern me more than it does.

Byron answers, hair disheveled, eyes slightly bloodshot from what I'm guessing is hours of gaming. He looks at me for a beat, then walks away, leaving the door open behind him. I stand in the threshold, uncertain if this is an invitation or dismissal.

"You just going to stand there?" he calls over his shoulder, dropping onto his couch and grabbing a controller.

The apartment is exactly as it was the last time I was here — slightly messy in that distinctly bachelor way, empty pizza boxes stacked on the kitchen counter, gaming setup dominating the living room. A space I used to feel completely at home in, now tinged with the awkwardness of our fractured friendship.

I close the door behind me and take a seat on the adjacent couch, the one that's always been mine during our gaming marathons. Byron doesn't look at me, just tosses a second controller in my direction. The screen shows Call of Duty paused mid-match.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you?" he asks, the first almost-normal thing he's said to me in weeks.

"Yeah, right," I respond automatically.

We play in relative silence, broken only by occasional cursing when one of us gets taken out or brief strategy discussions. It's not the same as before — the easy banter, the inside jokes, the comfortable silences — but it's something. It's a start.

As the night wears on, as the familiarity of this ritual settles over us, I find myself relaxing into it. We're not talking about what happened, not addressing the Saylor-shaped elephant in the room, but we're existing in the same space without hostility. For now, that feels like enough.

Around eleven, I set down the controller. "Got early practice tomorrow," I say, stretching as I stand. "See you in class tomorrow?"

Byron nods, eyes still on the screen. "Yeah."

One word. No questions about where I've been, what I've been doing, who I've been with. No accusations or recriminations. Just "yeah." The simplicity of it, the normalcy, feels like a gift I don't deserve.

As I walk to my car, I wonder if this is how it's going to be now — polite distance, surface-level interactions, the deep bond we once shared relegated to memory. The thought sits like a stone in my stomach, heavy and cold.

But then my phone lights up with a text from Saylor — Can't stop thinking about today — and the stone dissolves, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my chest. I'm caught between worlds, between loyalties, between versions of myself.

"I can't stay away from her," I admit to Sandy during morning stretches. The words tumble out before I can stop them, the secret too large to contain any longer.

He doesn't need to ask who her is. "Is that a good thing or bad thing?"

The question is deceptively simple. Good for who? Bad by what metric? "I don't know," I answer honestly. "All I know is she's got me twisted up inside. Can't get enough of her—" Her mind, her laugh, the way she looks at me like I'm simultaneously the best and worst thing that's ever happened to her.

Sandy smiles slightly as he switches legs. "If she's all in, it'll work itself out. Look at me and Hannah."

I sigh heavily, rolling my shoulders to release the tension that always builds when I think about this situation. "Why do relationships have to be so fucking complicated?"

He laughs, not denying it.

"She told me I had to choose. Her or Byron."

"She did?"

"And I told her we'd keep us a secret. It's been a week. Yesterday I went to Byron's to play video games after dropping her off."

Sandy stares at me for a moment, then laughs — not mockingly, but with genuine amusement. "Does he know?"

"About me and Saylor? Hell no."

"You're playing with fire, little brother." He pulls me to my feet as Coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of warm-ups. "Word of advice? Maybe stop being friends with Byron."

The suggestion hits hard. I didn't bring it up so that he could give me this advice. I shake my head. "I can't do that. We've been through too much. You don't just throw away a friendship because—"

"Because you're sleeping with his girlfriend? His ex, whatever. Yeah, you kind of do." Sandy's expression turns serious. "You're trying to have it both ways, and neither of them is going to like it when they find out."

"If they find out," I correct.

"When," Sandy insists. "Secrets like this don't stay a secret, trust me." He skates backward toward the forming line. "You're going to have to choose eventually. If it's Saylor, you need to accept that Byron is the collateral damage."

His bluntness leaves me standing alone at the boards, the reality of my situation suddenly stark and unavoidable. I've been treating this like a temporary problem, a transitional awkwardness that will eventually resolve itself. But Sandy's right — this isn't sustainable. Eventually, something will give.

Practice provides a welcome distraction, the physical exertion forcing my mind to focus on movement, strategy, reaction. On the ice, things make sense — there are rules, clear objectives, defined boundaries. Nothing like the sneaky, lying, hiding shit I'm navigating off the ice.

Coach pulls me aside during a drill rotation. "Connolly, you're back to third string for Saturday's game. Miller is fully healed."

I nod, swallowing disappointment. I knew this was coming — Miller's the veteran, I'm the new guy — but it stings nonetheless. "Understood, Coach."

"Keep working, though," he adds. "You've got potential. Just need more consistency."

At least in hockey, the path forward is clear: work harder, get better, earn your spot. If only relationships came with such straightforward instructions.

Economics class feels like an exercise in torture. Byron sits beside me as usual, our silent truce seeming to be our new normal. But there's a hollow quality to our silence now, weighted with all the things we're not saying.

When class ends, we file out into the hallway, and there she is — directly in our path, impossible to avoid without being obvious. For a heart-stopping moment, I fear she'll be upset if I ignore her again, but with Byron walking beside me, what the hell am I supposed to do?

"Hi, Byron," she says, voice carefully neutral. Then her eyes find mine. "Cade." A slight nod before she turns and walks away, disappearing into the stream of students.

Beside me, Byron stands frozen, watching her retreat. The pain in his expression is raw, unguarded, and so familiar it makes me hesitate. I've worn that exact look, felt that exact hollowness after Hannah. The knowledge that I'm the cause of that pain in my best friend settles like lead in my stomach. I want to know what he's thinking, but it's clearly about her. He misses her, he wants her. I see it in the flicker of his expression. The yearning.

He doesn't say anything, just adjusts his backpack and heads toward his next class. I don't follow, don't try to fill the silence with meaningless words. I know anything I say will make it worse.

By afternoon, I'm wound tight from the strain of my double life, from constantly calculating what I can say to whom, from the growing realization that Sandy is right — this can't go on indefinitely. Something has to give.

When Saylor meets me behind the science building between classes, the release is immediate. Her lips on mine, her body pressed against the brick wall, her hands threading through my hair — it's like surfacing after too long underwater, that first desperate gasp of air.

"Missed you," she murmurs against my mouth, the simple admission making my heart stutter.

"It's been six hours," I remind her, but I understand the feeling exactly. Six hours of pretending we're strangers, of careful distance, of playing roles that feel increasingly false.

She pulls back slightly, eyes mischievous. "Want to see what I'm wearing today?"

Before I can answer, she's unbuttoning the top of her blouse just enough to reveal the edge of a red sheer bra, the hint of skin beneath the transparent fabric sending heat coursing through me.

"You're trying to kill me," I groan, capturing her lips again. Her laugh vibrates against my mouth, the sound of it intoxicating.

I could stay here all day, lost in the warm reality of her, but responsibility pulls me back. "You need to get to class," I tell her, smoothing her hair where my hands have mussed it. "I'll see you later."

She pouts but complies, rebuttoning her blouse with deliberate slowness. "Promise?"

"Promise." The word feels weighty, significant beyond its context. "Actually, I need to do some grocery shopping later. Want to come with?"

Her face lights up at this mundane suggestion, and I understand why — it's normal, everyday, something couples do without thinking.

"Yes," she says, too quickly. "I mean, sure, if you want company."

"I want you," I clarify. "In all contexts, not just the fun ones."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is worth any risk.

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store cast everything in a harsh, unflattering glow, but Saylor somehow looks more radiant here than at any party. She's examining avocados with serious concentration, testing each one with gentle pressure from her fingertips.

"Too soft," she declares, putting one back. "You want them just barely yielding. Like this." She places one in my palm, guiding my fingers to feel the slight give beneath the skin.

"How do you know so much about avocados?" I ask, genuinely curious about this unexpected expertise.

"My mom's a chef. She taught me all the tricks." Her hand lingers on mine longer than necessary, the casual touch sending warmth up my arm. "What else is on your list?"

I glance down at my phone. "Coffee, pasta, something green that won't die in my fridge before I remember to eat it."

She laughs, moving toward the produce section with confident steps. "Spinach," she decides, selecting a bag. "You can freeze it if you don't use it all. Tasteless in smoothies too."

"Look at you," I nudge her with my shoulder, enjoying her being all domestic and stuff. It's hot as hell, hearing her talk about food and its properties. She's clearly into cooking and health. I think I just learned her passion: food.

"Don't get used to it," she warns, but her smile contradicts her words. "I'm only doing this because your fridge was so sad it made me physically ill. My mom may be a chef, but I barely know how to cook."

I watch her carefully, aware of what she's doing. She's giving me the perfect display of humbleness. I would put money down that she actually knows how to cook and acting as if it's not a big deal.

"Leftover pizza and protein shakes are acceptable staples," I argue, following her down the cereal aisle.

"For college freshmen, maybe." She picks up a box of sugary cereal, examining the nutrition label with exaggerated disapproval. "How are you an athlete eating this?"

"My superior genetics compensate for my terrible diet." I snatch the box from her hands, dropping it into the cart. "Some of us need simple pleasures in life."

"Oh, I can think of simpler pleasures than processed sugar." Her voice drops lower, eyes meeting mine with unmistakable intent.

"Grocery store, Saylor," I remind her, though I can't help leaning closer. "Public place."

"Right," she agrees, not moving away. "Very public."

We stand there, suspended in the moment, surrounded by strangers going about their mundane shopping while something electric passes between us. In this fluorescent-lit, utterly ordinary setting, I realize that I'm falling for her — not just physically, not just as a forbidden thrill, but deeply, completely, in a way I've never fallen for anyone before.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a calm certainty, like discovering something I've always known but never articulated.

"What?" she asks, noticing my expression.

"Nothing," I answer. "Just thinking that grocery shopping has never been this fun before."

Her smile — quick, genuine, a little shy — makes my chest tighten. "Wait till you see what I can do with pasta."

Wait, maybe the humbleness isn't all there. "Are you offering to cook for me?"

"Maybe." She takes the cart, wheeling it toward another aisle like she knows exactly where she's going. "That was one of your conditions, wasn't it? Date nights?"

"It was." I catch up to her, hand finding the small of her back naturally. "I just didn't expect you to fulfill it so…happily."

"Disappointed?" she teases.

"The opposite." I lean in closer, voice dropping to ensure only she can hear. "Watching you in my kitchen? Might be my new favorite fantasy."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is immensely satisfying. "Pasta," she reminds herself, grabbing a box from the shelf without looking at it. "We're shopping for pasta."

"Right," I agree, enjoying her flustered state.

We continue through the store, and she convinces me to buy actual vegetables. I persuade her that chocolate ice cream is a dietary essential. We debate the merits of various bread types with ridiculous intensity, draw strange looks when we dissolve into laughter over absolutely nothing in the spice aisle.

At the checkout, I insist on paying despite her protests. "You're cooking," I remind her. "I provide the ingredients."

"Fine," she relents, helping bag our purchases. "But I expect deep appreciation for my culinary efforts."

"I'm known for my appreciation skills," I assure her, earning another blush that makes the elderly cashier hide a smile.

As we load the bags into my car, as I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear while debating the optimal route back to my place.

"You good?" she asks, catching me watching her.

"Yeah," I say, but this time I add the truth. "I just can't believe I have you."