Chapter 6
My phone vibrates under my pillow nonstop, but I feel like I'm dreaming it. The persistent buzzing tunnels through my skull, each vibration like a tiny earthquake against my temples. I burrow deeper into my covers, chasing unconsciousness, but the device continues its relentless assault on my senses.
Whoever is trying to reach me can wait. The pounding in my head won't. I squeeze my eyes shut against the thin sliver of sunlight seeping through my curtains, willing the room to stop spinning.
Fragments of last night float through my consciousness like debris after a storm. Dancing with Mina and Chloe. Shots of something clear and burning. The party. More dancing.
And then—
Cade.
My eyes snap open as memories cascade through the alcohol-induced fog. His hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. The look in his eyes when I took off my clothes for him, wearing lingerie underneath. My first ever orgasm during sex. The size of his large dick making me cry out. How he had my ass in the air.
Oh god.
I press my palms against my eyelids, as if I could physically push the memories away. It had been the best sex of my life — passionate, intense, explosive. The kind that ruins you for anyone else.
With Cade Connolly. Byron's best friend. The arrogant, cheating asshole I've spent the last year despising.
What the fuck was I thinking?
The phone buzzes again, more insistent now, demanding attention. I reach under my pillow with trembling fingers, dreading what I might find.
The screen illuminates with notifications — seventeen text messages and nine missed calls. My stomach drops as I read the first preview.
From Byron: What the fuck!
The next: Saylor.
Then: Say.
Saylor, call me back.
Saylor.
Fear trickles down my spine, cold and persistent. I switch to my call log, and my worst suspicions are confirmed. Two outgoing calls to Byron at 2:13 AM and 2:17 AM, lasting three minutes and six minutes respectively.
I don't remember making those calls. I don't remember what I said. But judging by his texts, it wasn't "hello" and "goodnight."
My finger hovers over his name, the decision to call back is physically painful. But prolonging this will only make it worse. With a deep breath that does nothing to calm my racing heart, I press his contact and raise the phone to my ear.
He answers on the second ring. "Saylor." My name in his voice sends arrows of pain through my skull, his tone a mixture of anger and hurt that makes my insides twist with guilt.
"Byron," I manage, my voice a raspy shadow of itself. "Morning."
"Morning? That's all you have to say?" His words are clipped, tight with restrained emotion. "After last night? After what you told me?"
The room tilts slightly. "What…what did I say?"
"Are you serious right now?" His voice rises, making me wince. "You don't remember?"
"I was drunk," I whisper, as if that excuses anything. "I don't remember calling you, and I don't know what I said."
"Unbelievable." The word explodes from him like a bullet. "Do you even know what you did last night? Saylor, you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you hooked up with someone."
The words hit me with physical force. My body reacts before my mind can process — a violent roll of nausea surges up my throat. I lurch upright, but it's too late. Vomit projects across my blanket, hot and acrid, splashing onto my bare legs.
Byron's voice continues from the phone, now resting on my pillow as I heave again, my body violently expelling the remnants of last night's poor decisions. Tears stream from my eyes, partly from the force of vomiting, partly from the horror of what I've done.
When the retching finally subsides, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and wipe off the splattered vomit as much as I can with the other blanket. Then I pick up my phone.
"I'm sorry," I croak. "I was throwing up. I didn't hear what you said."
"Jesus, Saylor." His disgust carries clearly through the phone. "Are you still drunk?"
I glance down at the mess on my blanket, at my body in the same lingerie Cade fucked me in. I wore this set in hopes to get lucky, and it turned out I didn't get so lucky because out of all cocks at the party last night, I had to land on Cade's. He's the only person I've ever truly hated. The irony isn't lost on me.
"No," I answer, swallowing against the sour taste in my mouth. "Just puked it all out. I'm very, very hungover."
"I haven't slept since your call," he says, his voice quieter now but no less intense. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be woken up by your girlfriend drunk calling you to announce she fucked someone else?"
Each word lands like a slap. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. "I'm not your girlfriend, Byron."
Byron gasps. "Yeah, you fucking are. You think breaking up with me over a fucking text message is a legit way to break up? We didn't even get a chance to talk!"
"I broke up with you," I mutter, feeling my stomach get woozy again. "We are done."
"I was giving you space after that text, after all that shit with Cade, and then you turn around and fuck somebody else the first chance you get?"
I feel myself getting sick again. At the mention of Cade, I gag. "I shouldn't have called you."
"Who was it?" he demands suddenly. "You wouldn't tell me last night. Said it was a secret ."
Shit.
Doesn't that give it away?
But then the realization hits me. I didn't tell him who I hooked up with. I almost feel relief. In my drunken state, I confessed to the act but not the identity. A small mercy from drunk-me to sober-me.
"It doesn't matter," I say quietly.
"It doesn't matter?" He repeats my words, incredulity raising his pitch. "Of course it matters! Was it someone I know? It was, wasn't it? Is that why you were laughing about how it's a fucking secret?"
Fear coils tighter in my chest, constricting my breathing. If he finds out it was Cade, his best friend…I can't even imagine the fallout. I don't think I want to live to see the day.
"It was a mistake," I tell him, which is both true and not. The act itself had been deliberate, desired — it was the choice of partner that was catastrophic. "I was drunk and upset and made a terrible decision."
"Was it Wilson?" His voice hardens with suspicion. "I know he goes to those parties. I saw how he was looking at you in Econ class last week."
"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. "It wasn't Wilson."
"Then who?" he presses. "Some random guy? Wasn't Cade at the party too? I'll just ask him who the fuck you disappeared with."
I close my eyes, trying to think through the pounding in my head. Every option feels like walking through a minefield. Lie? Tell the truth? Hang up? Move to another country?
"Why do you care?" I ask finally, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "I broke up with you, Byron. You don't get to question me about who I sleep with anymore. And you…you have checked out of this relationship months ago. I wear all this sexy lingerie for you, and you turn your head the other way. You would rather play your fucking video games than to touch me, so I don't think you have a right to be this mad. My head is pounding. I'm lying down in my puke. I just woke up, but you won't leave me the fuck alone this morning. I need a fucking minute!"
Silence stretches between us. When he speaks again, his voice is low, controlled. "You replaced me so fucking fast, Saylor. And then you call me to make sure I know about it? Did you want to hurt me? Is that it?"
Guilt and shame flood through me, bringing fresh tears to my eyes. "No," I whisper. "Of course not."
"Well, congratulations," he says coldly. "You failed."
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in my hand, watching as the call duration ticks to a stop. Four minutes and twelve seconds of conversation that just destroyed whatever civility might have remained between us.
I drop the phone on my nightstand and look down at myself — cold sticky vomit all over me, wearing lingerie I bought to seduce a man who wasn't my boyfriend. I'm hungover and miserable.
I've never hated myself more than I do in this moment, but I need to get cleaned up. I hop off the bed, wiping the vomit off my legs with the clean side of the blanket. Now the stench remains on my skin. I grab my towel and clean up as much vomit from the blanket as possible. I pull the blanket off my bed and fold it carefully, dropping it on the ground. Then I creep into the bathroom and take a shower, washing off the dried up come between my legs and the disgusting vomit from my thighs. I scrub at my skin like I could wash away the memories, the guilt, the knowledge of what I've done. But some stains don't come out, no matter how hard you scrub. I use a clean towel to dry off and start a load of laundry.
My phone buzzes again when I walk back into my room. For one wild moment, I think it's Byron calling back, but the screen shows a text from Mina.
You alive? Chloe made hangover pancakes. Come get some when you crawl out of your grave.
Pancakes. As if food could fix this. As if anything could fix this.
I get dressed and drag myself out of my room.
Maybe my friends will know how to fix this.
When I wake up, my head pounds with the signature throb of too much beer and too little water, but it's nothing compared to the wave of dread that crashes over me when I see Byron's name on my phone screen.
Six missed calls. Four texts. The first one simple and direct: Call me. Now.
The room spins slightly as I sit up, squinting at the timestamp. 6:43 AM. Byron never calls me this much, so something's wrong. Very wrong.
My mind instantly jumps to Saylor. She was drunk last night — not just tipsy, but the kind of drunk where stupid decisions are made and secrets spill. The kind of drunk where calling your very recent ex at midnight seems like a brilliant idea.
Did she tell him?
I scroll through the rest of his messages, looking for clues.
Call me when you get this.
No accusations. No fuck you, you piece of shit or what the fuck is fucking wrong with you or any of the things I'd expect if he knew I slept with his ex-girlfriend less than 48 hours after they broke up. But something's definitely up.
I drop the phone on my bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. The cocky certainty I usually wear like armor feels paper-thin this morning. I want to respect Saylor's wishes — to keep what happened between us — but this is Byron. My best friend. The guy who I can call for anything. The guy who would stay up all night quizzing me before finals. The guy who drove four hours to pick me up when my car broke down during spring break last year. The guy who listened nonstop when shit went down with Hannah and Sanderson.
And this is how I repay him.
I force myself into the shower, letting cold water beat against my skin as if it could wash away the stupid impulsiveness that's been driving my decisions lately. This whole Hannah thing really fucked me up, and I've been an entitled condescending asshole ever since. But hell, I recognize that I've just been spiraling after Hannah, and after last night? The audacity I have to treat my best friend like this when he’s been nothing but a good friend, I know I really am a piece of shit just like my father. By the time I step out of the shower, I'm shivering and my mind no clearer.
I dress quickly, jeans and a hoodie, trying to ignore the way my phone continues to light up with Byron's calls. I need to talk to Saylor first. Need to know what she said, what she remembers, what she wants to do.
Suddenly, I feel like Sanderson. Fuck, this is a shitshow.
Jake answers on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.
"Connolly? It's not even eight, man."
"I need Mina's address," I say, skipping the pleasantries. "Where do they live?"
He chuckles, and I can practically see the smirk on his face. "Didn't get enough of Saylor last night, huh?"
My blood freezes. "What are you talking about?"
"Come on. You two disappeared for what, an hour?"
Fuck. I'm in deep shit if he already put that together.
I say, "It's an emergency. I need to talk to Saylor, and I don't have her number."
That sobers him. "Emergency?"
"Fuck, bro. All I can say right now is I pulled a Sanderson, okay? Details, later. Address, now."
"Shit, dude. Alright." He's quiet for a moment, then sighs. "Cedar Park Apartments. Building C, unit 308. But if Mina asks, you didn't get it from me."
"Thanks, man." I end the call and grab my keys. "I owe you one."
The drive to Cedar Park takes twelve minutes that feel like twelve hours. Every possible scenario plays out in my head like a suspenseful movie gone wrong. Byron knowing everything. Byron knowing nothing. Byron knowing something but not who. Byron at my apartment wanting to kill me. Byron telling Sandy. Sandy humiliating me. Jake telling the team. Coach kicking me off before I even get a chance to play. Saylor laughing at me, believing that I deserve it for the piece of shit that I am.
I inhale, trying to calm my anxiety. You never know how people will react to being betrayed. And I don't know if Saylor will even be on my side. I fucked her knowing how much she hates me. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, checking my mirrors nervously like Byron might be following me. There are a thousand ways to handle this. With how much Byron is calling me, I could lie about not knowing he's been calling. Say I lost my phone. Say I went home early from the party. Say I never saw Saylor last night.
But everyone saw us talking. Morrison, Jake, probably half the team. And I'm a terrible liar — I can only pretend for a short amount of time before it starts to eat at me. It's one thing to omit truths, another entirely to fabricate them.
By the time I park outside Building C, my heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror — I still look good even while feeling like shit. Then I glance around to make sure Byron isn't here because that would be my fucking nightmare.
I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor, find unit 308, and knock. I'm here to know the plan, and a part of me hopes she doesn't hate me even more now. It will be harder if she doesn't remember last night.
The door opens to reveal Mina, her expression shifting from alarm to recognition to wariness in the span of seconds. She sighs, steps back, and waves me in without a word. By the look on her face, I think she knows everything.
The apartment is small but neat, with mismatched furniture that somehow works together. Chloe sits at a tiny kitchen table, fork poised over a stack of pancakes, her eyebrows raised at my entrance. And there, curled on the couch with a mug clutched between her hands, is Saylor.
Our eyes meet, and something in my chest loosens slightly. She looks like I feel — exhausted, hungover, haunted. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, stray strands framing her face. She's wearing a light pink pajama set, the outline of her breasts visible beneath the thin fabric where she's clearly not wearing a bra. Even like this — especially like this — she's beautiful.
"What are you doing here?" she hisses, eyes wide with panic. "Are you crazy?"
"I need to talk to you," I say, ignoring the knowing looks Mina and Chloe exchange. "About Byron."
Saylor pales visibly, clutching her mug tighter. She glances at her roommates, who are gawking at me. Chloe especially, so I assume she must be single.
"Okay," she mutters, rising from the couch. "But make it quick."
I follow her down a short hallway to a bedroom at the end. She pushes the door open, and the smell hits me immediately — the unmistakable sour tang of vomit poorly masked by air freshener. She notices my reaction and flushes.
"Sorry," she mumbles, embarrassed. "Rough morning."
"It's fine," I say, closing the door behind us. The room is small, dominated by a queen bed with no sheets or blankets. A damp towel hangs over a chair, and her clothes from last night lie in a heap on the floor. The lingerie I fucked her in. I swallow hard, forcing my eyes away.
"Have you talked to Byron?" she asks, sinking onto the edge of her bed.
"No," I admit. "But he's been calling me since 6:30 this morning. Did you talk to him?"
She closes her eyes briefly, pain washing over her features. "I drunk-dialed him last night…and I told him I hooked up with someone."
The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. "You what?"
"I don't remember doing it," she says quickly, defensive. "I woke up to a million texts and missed calls from him. Apparently, I called him at 2 AM and confessed."
"Did you tell him it was me?" I ask, my voice strained.
She shakes her head. "No. I talked to him again this morning, and he was pissed. I mean livid. He asked who I hooked up with, but I didn't say. He said that I called it a secret ."
Relief floods me, immediately followed by a fresh wave of anxiety. "He's going to ask me about it. He'll expect me to know what happened at the party."
"So, lie," she says simply. "Tell him you don't know anything."
I run a hand through my still-damp hair, pacing the small space between her bed and dresser. I imagine lying to him, and my gut fucking twists. I was actually hoping for the opposite here.
"It's not that simple. Jake already knows something happened between us. People saw us talking."
"So? Talking isn't hooking up."
"They saw us walk into the bedroom, and they fucking timed it, Say. They all know how long we were in that room. There's no lying out of this. Byron's my best friend," I say, trying hard not to panic, but boy, am I fucking panicking. "If I talk to him, if he sees me, he'll know I'm hiding something. He knows me very well. There is no way out of this."
"We can't just tell him," she argues. "Do you have any idea what this would do to him? Finding out I slept with his best friend two days after I broke up with him?"
My phone vibrates in my pocket — another call from Byron. I pull it out, showing her the screen. I think I'm shaking. I think I could actually punch myself in the face at what I've done.
"See? He's not going to stop."
Panic flashes across her face. "Don't answer it. Not here."
"I can't keep avoiding him," I say, letting the call go to voicemail. "And I can't lie to him, Saylor. Not about this."
"Why not?" she demands, getting overly upset. "It was one night. A mistake. It doesn't have to mean anything."
The words sting more than they should. A mistake? I wipe my face, wondering if she actually thinks it's a mistake, or if she's just calling it that because this girl has a temper.
"If you're going to do something, take accountability for it," I seethe, anger rushing through my veins. Soon, I'll start seeing red if she can't admit what we've gotten ourselves into. She didn't seem to think fucking me was a mistake while I was inside of her. "I can't lie."
Her expression drops like I've fed her bullshit. "So, you can cheat, but you can't fucking lie, Cade?" she retorts, eyes flashing with that hatred I know so well.
"I never fucking lied about cheating on Hannah," I remind her. "Everyone knew what happened. I owned it. I may have cheated, but I am not a fucking liar, Saylor."
She looks away, anger coursing through her. I watch as her fingers pluck at the mattress. The silence stretches between us, and it's painfully obvious she cannot admit to shit. She would rather sit here and lie and pretend like none of it is happening. God, it's fucking unbelievable how immature this girl is. How she handles things infuriates me. I clench my jaw to release some tension. If she's going to deny it, it has to be because she still loves him. I care for him, too, but lying about what we did isn't fair to me or Byron.
"Do you want him back?" I ask, the question that's been on the tip of my tongue since I saw her at the party. It's why he wanted me to talk to her in the first place, right?
She doesn't answer right away, her expression thoughtful, distant. Then she shakes her head slowly. "No," she says quietly. "I don't."
She chews her bottom lip as I shrug. I exhale, trying to find the right way to talk to this girl. I've never gotten anywhere with her in the past, and I don't expect that to change overnight.
"Saylor, we should tell him," I say. "Together, if you want. But he deserves to know."
She doesn't respond. Instead, her eyes search the ground for an answer. I watch as the first tear takes it form and spills over before she can blink them away.
"I don't want to," she whispers, voice breaking. "I don't want him to know."
"What kind of person do you want to be, Saylor? Someone who takes responsibility for their actions, or someone who lies and pretends nothing happened?"
She doesn't answer, but she starts to cry harder. Her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. I want to reach for her, to pull her against me and tell her everything will be okay. But I don't know if that's true. And I don't know if I have the right.
Her fingers reach for me, tentative and desperate all at once. The gesture breaks something loose in my chest — this silent permission, this wordless plea. I don't hesitate. In one fluid motion, I move to be near her, gathering her into my arms as her tears fall harder.
She feels small against me, her body trembling with each sob. I rest my chin atop her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo — something floral and clean that stands in stark contrast to the lingering smell of sickness in the room. My throat tightens.
I've never been good at this part — the aftermath, the emotional fallout. Give me a problem to solve, a strategy to develop, a game to win, and I'm in my element. But this tangle of guilt and desire and obligation feels like trying to navigate a maze in the dark, every path potentially leading to another dead end.
"I can't do it," she whispers against my chest, her words muffled by the fabric of my hoodie. "What you're saying makes sense, and I understand, but I…"
I understand that fear better than she knows. The thought of Byron's face when he learns the truth makes my stomach twist into knots. The betrayal in his eyes, the hurt, the anger — I've seen it all before, reflected in my own expression when Hannah revealed what happened. The memory of that pain is still fresh enough to make my chest ache.
"Listen," I say softly, pulling back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks flushed, and still, she's beautiful. "There are only two ways this goes. Either we tell him, or he finds out from someone else. Which do you think would be worse?"
Her eyes search mine, looking for an escape route I can't offer. "I thought you'd want to hide it," she admits, voice barely above a whisper. "Keep it a secret between us."
The words settle, heavy with meaning. Would I? Two months ago, maybe. A year ago, definitely. Before Hannah, before I understood what betrayal really feels like from both sides, yeah, I probably would have selfishly kept this entire thing a secret.
"I probably would have," I confess. "Before everything with Hannah and my brother. But…" I pause, gathering thoughts that feel too big for the words. "Being betrayed fucking sucks. But hearing it straight from Hannah, knowing exactly what happened — it made moving on possible. Painful, but possible. She didn't sugarcoat shit. I only knew about what happened because she's a good person. She couldn't lie, and that alone was inspiring. Don't get me wrong, the entire thing was fucked, but it showed me how important the truth is…the entire thing changed me. I mean, I thought I was a good person, but she owned up to her mistake, and I will always respect that. Respect the truth."
My fingers find a strand of her hair that's escaped her bun, tucking it gently behind her ear. The gesture is more intimate than I intended, but she doesn't pull away.
"If I had found out from someone else, or pieced it together from rumors and sideways glances? That would have been so much worse. The not knowing, the questions that would never fully be answered would probably eat at me. It makes me still feel like shit…like the entirety of it, but I do feel a little better knowing that they're together now. Props to them."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "You haven't really moved on, though. You joined the hockey team to get back at him."
The observation startles a low laugh from me. "Yeah… Sandy and I have a ways to go before it's all water under the bridge." I shrug, the movement shifting her slightly in my arms. "But we're making progress. I'm sure we'll work it out eventually. We're brothers."
"Eventually?" she echoes, skepticism clear in her voice.
"I just needed a bigger problem first," I joke, the levity feeling strange but necessary in the heaviness of the moment. "And this situation definitely takes the cake. Sleeping with you? That makes the whole hockey revenge plot look like child's play."
She lets out a small hiccup of laughter, and something in my chest eases at the sound. Her tears have slowed, her breathing returning to normal as she wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"So," I start again, now that the conversation has smoothed into calmer waters. "Are you willing to tell him with me? We can just say we got drunk and accidentally hooked up. Keep it simple."
The word 'accidentally' hangs in the air between us, and her eyes find mine, suddenly sharp and clear despite her tearstained face.
"Is that how you feel?" she asks quietly. "That it was an accident?"
The question cuts through my carefully constructed explanation, straight to the heart of something I've been avoiding even in my own thoughts. Was it an accident? The alcohol, the party, the empathy, the circumstances — all of those were contributing factors, certainly. But I remember the way it felt to hear why she actually hated me, the way she looked in that lingerie like she wore it just for me, and the clear-eyed decision to kiss her back when she leaned in.
My mind replays every moment in vivid detail — the flush of her skin as she undressed, the sound of my name on her lips, the way her body moved against mine in a way I hadn't expected. Nothing about it felt accidental. It felt…inevitable. Like something that had been building beneath the surface of our mutual dislike for longer than either of us realized.
The truth rises within me, uncomfortable but undeniable. I could lie to her, to Byron, to myself. Chalk it up to drunken mistake, apologize, move on. The easier path, certainly. But haven't I just lectured her about taking accountability? About being honest even when it's painful?
I shake my head slowly. "No," I admit, the word barely audible. "No, I don't think it was an accident."
Her breath catches, eyes widening slightly at my honesty.
"If I'm being completely honest," I continue, knowing I'm stepping into dangerous territory but unable to stop now, "I would probably do it again."
The words hang between us, a confession that changes everything. I wait for her reaction, for disgust or anger or dismissal.
Instead, she holds my gaze steadily. "Probably?"
A challenge in that single word. The ghost of her usual spark returning.
"Definitely," I amend, honesty flowing easier now that the first barrier has been broken. "I would definitely do it again. Sober. In a heartbeat."
The room feels ten degrees warmer as she processes my words. I watch her expression shift, caution warring with desire, guilt grappling with curiosity.
"Would you?" I ask, turning her own question back on her. "Or are you still a hater?"
She laughs and then hesitates, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "Probably," she echoes my earlier hedging, but there's a warmth in her eyes that contradicts the uncertainty in her voice.
I look at her lips, remembering how soft and plump they were against mine. I search her eyes, wondering what the fuck happens next.
We have a much bigger problem on our hands than I thought.
But first things first. One crisis at a time.
"We need to tell Byron," I say, bringing us back to the immediate issue. "It'll hurt him. But he deserves the truth, and it'll be worse coming from someone else."
She nods, agreeing. "Okay," she whispers, the word small but significant. "Okay, we'll tell him."
Relief washes through me. This is going to be fucking hard — one of the hardest conversations of my life.