Chapter 31
JACKSON
The thing about heartbreak is that it doesn’t have the decency to announce itself with trumpets and dramatic lighting—it simply settles into your bones and stays there. Forever.
It’s been two days. Forty-eight hours since Drew Larney looked me dead in the eyes and called me his “bestest friend” with all the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who doesn’t understand why you’re crying.
Premium buddy status. Top-tier friendship.
Words that should mean something good, but instead feel as though someone took a cheese grater to my chest cavity.
The worst part? I’m not even surprised.
I drag myself through Monday morning, attending classes I don’t remember, taking notes I’ll never read.
Professor Abernathy calls on me twice, and both times I manage to string together coherent sentences through sheer muscle memory.
The continued lesson on inverse relationships between interest rates and investment spending has nothing on the inverse relationship between my confession and Drew’s emotional availability.
Ryan notices, of course. He notices everything.
“You’ve been staring at that same page for forty-seven minutes,” he informs me over lunch, not even looking up from his astrophysics textbook. “Your sandwich remains untouched, and you’ve sighed exactly fourteen times.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhibiting classic symptoms of romantic rejection. Decreased appetite, difficulty concentrating, excessive sighing.” He finally meets my eyes. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about.” I pick up my sandwich and take a bite that tastes worse than cardboard. “Drew and I are friends. Great friends. The best of friends.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
I am. It’s not working.
The thing is, I always knew this was how it would end.
Drew Larney, with his easy charm and his roster of hookups, was never going to fall for the football player who stumbled into his fake relationship scheme.
I’m not his type. I’ve seen his type—confident, experienced, comfortable in their sexuality.
Not someone who spent an afternoon exploring his own body while fantasizing about possibilities that were never real.
I should be grateful, really. He let me down easy. He didn’t mock me or make it weird. He just…friend-zoned me with the precision of a surgeon.
By Thursday, I’ve developed a routine. Wake up, shower, avoid looking at my phone in case Drew texted something friendly and devastating, go to class, pretend to eat, go to the gym, come home, stare at the ceiling, and try not to think about Saturday’s performance.
The charity event sits in my calendar like a ticking time bomb, counting down to inevitable destruction. In two days, I’ll be in a glass box wearing nothing but a thong, running paint-covered hands over Drew’s body while pretending it doesn’t mean anything. Because it doesn’t. Not to him.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Arthur says during our afternoon weight room session.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like someone ran over your dog, backed up, and ran over it again.” He racks his dumbbells and fixes me with a knowing stare. “Spill.”
“It’s nothing.”
Tyrell appears on my other side, having finished his set. “Bullshit. You’ve been moping all week. What happened?”
I consider lying. Consider deflecting with humor or changing the subject. But Arthur and Tyrell have been my rocks since freshman year, and right now, I need someone to understand.
Clearing my throat, I force the words out. “So, the thing with Drew and me? It’s fake. The whole relationship is fake.”
“Wait, what?” Tyrell’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You and Drew aren’t dating?”
“We’re pretending. To fool the Ice Queen. It was supposed to be simple. Fake it until spring break, then have an amicable split.”
Arthur crosses his arms, studying me with that analytical look he gets when he’s breaking down game footage. “But something changed.”
It’s not a question, and that’s what breaks me. “I told him I had feelings for him. Real ones. At Home Depot, of all fucking places.” I laugh, but it sounds more like I’m choking. “And he called me his ‘bestest friend.’ Like I’m the fox to his hound.”
“Ouch,” Tyrell winces. “That’s rough, man.”
“It’s fine.” I grab the barbell for my next set, channeling everything into the movement. “I knew it was a long shot. Drew’s not—he doesn’t do relationships. Not real ones. And I’m not exactly his usual type.”
“His usual type being what, exactly?” Arthur asks.
“Not me.” I push through another rep, muscles burning. “Not the straight football player who’s still figuring out his sexuality. Not the guy who’s never been with another man.”
“Have you considered,” Tyrell says slowly, “that maybe Drew’s scared?”
I almost drop the weight. “Drew? Scared? Have you met the guy?”
“Everyone’s scared of something.” Arthur spots me as I struggle through the last rep. “Maybe his fear is wanting something real for once.”
I want to believe that. God, I want to believe that Drew’s rejection was self-protection, not genuine disinterest. But I was there.
I saw his face when he laughed off my confession.
There was no hidden longing, no suppressed emotion.
Just Drew being Drew, unaware that he’d just shattered something inside me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, racking the bar. “We have this charity thing on Saturday. I just need to get through that, and then…I don’t know. Figure out how to be his friend without wanting more.”
“That’s a tall order,” Tyrell says.
“Yeah, well.” I grab my water bottle. “I don’t have a choice.”
The afternoon bleeds into night, and I perfect the art of existing in Drew’s orbit without letting him see how much it hurts.
We text about the performance—logistics, timing, what colors to use.
He sends me memes, and I respond with emojis.
Every interaction is a small death, a reminder of what I want and can’t have.
Ryan suggests I skip the event. “Your mental health is more important than charity,” he argues.
“I can’t bail on him. On the cancer ward.” I shake my head. “Besides, backing out now would make things weird.”
“Things are already weird.”
“Weirder, then.”
Friday afternoon finds me back in the athletic center, working through my third set of deadlifts while my earbuds pump music directly into my brain. Arthur and Tyrell flank me on either side, their presence a comfort after my revelation.
My playlist shuffles, and an ’80s classic fills my ears. The melody is familiar—something my mom used to play during car rides when I was a kid.
The lyrics cut right to my very soul. A woman’s voice, raw and determined, talks about crying over lost love, about learning to live without someone. About hardening her heart.
I freeze mid-rep, the barbell hovering inches from the ground.
“Jackson?” Arthur’s voice is muffled through the music. “You good?”
I’m not good. I’m standing in a gym, sweating through my shirt, while Quarterflash tells me exactly what I need to do. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Harden my heart. That’s the answer, isn’t it? Stop hoping. Stop looking for hidden meanings in Drew’s texts. Stop imagining that the roller rink meant something, that the bathroom meant something, that any of it meant he cared.
I finish the rep with renewed determination, the burn in my muscles matching the ache in my chest.
“What are you listening to?” Tyrell asks, noting my sudden intensity.
“Life advice,” I grunt, starting another set.
The thing about hardening your heart is that it sounds simple in a song. Just decide to stop feeling. Just choose to move on. But feelings don’t work like that. They’re not light switches you can flip off when they become inconvenient.
Still, I have to try.
Another rep. Another breath. Another decision to keep going.
“You know,” Arthur says during our water break, “whatever happens Saturday, we’ve got your back.”
“Yeah,” Tyrell adds. “And if Drew does anything stupid, I’ll accidentally trip him the next time I see him at The Brew.”
I manage a weak laugh. “I appreciate the offer, but violence isn’t the answer.”
“It’s always an answer,” Arthur counters. “Just not always the right one.”
We finish our workout as the sun starts its descent outside the gym windows. My body aches in that satisfying way that comes from pushing yourself past comfort, and for a few blessed moments, I don’t think about Drew at all.
Then my phone buzzes.
Drew
Hey, what time should I pick you up on Saturday?
I stare at the message, the lyrics from earlier echoing in my head. Harden my heart. Don’t let him see how much this costs me.
Me
5 works.
Drew
Perfect. It’s going to be great, Jacky. Promise.
Jacky. The nickname he gave me, the one that used to make my stomach flip. Now it’s salt in an open, gaping wound.
Me
Can’t wait.
I pocket my phone and head for the showers, the hot water washing away sweat but not the hollow feeling in my chest. When everything is said and done, when my body has been thoroughly painted and caressed, I’ll smile, and I’ll joke, and I’ll be the best damn friend Drew Larney has ever had.
Trudging up the stairs, my legs scream from a workout that was meant to ease my stress levels. Did it work? No.
The hallway is empty except for the faint sound of music bleeding through someone’s door. I dig my key out of my pocket, already planning to collapse face-first onto my bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few hours.
The door swings open, and I freeze.
Ryan is on his bed, laptop propped on his chest, one hand down the front of his meticulously pressed khakis. His other hand grips his headphones. Through the reflection of the window, I catch a glimpse of what’s unmistakably Oliver Jacoby walking across campus.