Page 22 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
I hate that I notice the difference. I hate that I’m comparing them at all.
Stop it,I tell myself firmly.He was just Maddie’s setup charity case. One evening of being polite to your cousin’s friend’s wingman doesn’t mean anything.
“And Cole clearly liked you,” Maddie continues, apparently unaware of my internal crisis. “He was watching you when youtalked. Not in a creepy way,” she adds quickly, “but like he was actually listening.”
“He was being polite.”
“Harper, I’ve been on enough dates to know the difference between polite and interested. Trust me, that was interested.”
I fold my arms across my chest, partly against the car’s air conditioning and partly in defense against Maddie’s relentless optimism. “Even if he was interested, so what? I’m not looking for anything right now.”
Maddie glances at me as we stop at another red light, her expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. “You’re not looking for anything... or you’re not looking for something safe?”
The question hits closer to home than I want to admit. “Safe is boring.”
“But boring doesn’t break your heart.”
There it is. The truth neither of us wants to say out loud. That my last relationship left me gun-shy and overthinking every interaction with anyone who might be genuinely interested in getting to know me. That maybe I gravitated toward Liam precisely because he felt like the kind of mistake that couldn’t touch the parts of me I’m trying to protect.
We pull into our building’s parking lot, and Maddie’s still buzzing with post-date energy while I’m suddenly exhausted. The evening feels like it lasted about six hours longer than it actually did, packed with more emotional complexity than a simple dinner should contain.
As we climb the stairs to our floor, Maddie says quietly, “Just... think about it, okay? Liam? Easy lay, forgettable. Cole? Polite and interested. He’s genuine, Harp. I have a good feeling about this.”
My chest tightens about her comment towards Liam.
Is he forgettable? Because I haven’t forgotten anything about that night, and maybe that’s my problem.
In our dorm, I change into my most comfortable pajamas and crawl into bed with every intention of going straight to sleep. Tomorrow is Saturday, which means I can sleep in and pretend tonight never happened.
But my brain has other plans.
I stare at the ceiling, replaying fragments of the evening. Cole’s genuine laugh when I told the raccoon story. The way he asked follow-up questions about my life like he actually cared about the answers. How his jacket smelled like cedar and something clean and masculine that I didn’t want to give back.
And underneath it all, like a song I can’t get out of my head, the memory of Liam’s voice saying my name in the dark of his apartment.
I flip onto my side, then onto my stomach, trying to find a position that will let my brain shut up and let me sleep. It doesn’t work. If anything, the memories get louder, more insistent.
This is ridiculous. It was one night. One really good night, but still just one night. With a guy who probably doesn’t even remember my name.
But my hands are already reaching for my phone before I can stop them.
I open Instagram, telling myself I’m just going to scroll mindlessly until I get tired. But somehow my fingers type “Liam Murphy” into the search bar, and before I can think better of it, I’m looking at his profile.
His most recent post is from yesterday. It’s a photo after practice with only three other guys I don’t recognize, everyone grinning and sweaty and looking like they just conquered the world. Liam’s to the right, that familiar cocky smile on his face, and my stupid heart does a little flip.
I scroll down, past more hockey photos, past pictures with friends I don’t recognize, past what looks like a very expensive vacation from last summer. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, exactly. Proof that he’s exactly the player Maddie warned meabout? Evidence that our night together meant as little to him as it’s supposed to mean to me?
And then I somehow accidentally double-tap on a photo from over a year ago. A picture of him at what looks like a lake house. He’s tan and shirtless and living his best life.
The little heart appears on the screen, and my stomach drops to the earth’s core.
“Shit,” I whisper to my empty room. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I unlike it immediately, but the damage is done. There’s no taking back alikeon a year-old photo. That’s basically the digital equivalent of showing up at someone’s house with a full marching band and a sign that says, “I’VE BEEN STALKING YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA.”
I throw my phone on my lap like it’s on fire and try to breathe.
Now I’m definitely not sleeping.
