Chapter 1: The Girl Bro Hangover

After a night of drinking, I went a little wild with my childhood friend. Not exactly my proudest moment—more like something out of a sitcom where you’re both the punchline and the audience. Honestly, I should’ve seen it coming, but denial’s a hell of a drug.

The memory of last night clung to me like a second skin. Ugh, I could practically feel it still on me. As I stepped into the shower and let the hot water beat down, lines of snarky comments flashed through my mind, like some invisible livestream I couldn’t mute if I tried.

[Not to be rude, but can’t these girl bros just disappear already?]

[Doing this under the guise of friendship, what a mess.]

[The real main girl’s already here, hurry up and ditch the wannabe bro, it’s gross.]

In our group, a "girl bro" was basically the honorary dude—always in the circle, never in the spotlight. I fell silent and yanked the shower curtain closed. The plastic rings rattled along the rod, slicing through my thoughts. Great, now I was arguing with myself in the shower.

I pressed my forehead to the cool tile. Let the water scald my skin. Maybe it’d burn away the shame and confusion. But nope—the imaginary chatter just got louder, echoing off the bathroom walls like a bad laugh track.

When my childhood friend texted me to go out for drinks again, I grinned at my own sarcasm and shot back, “Not drinking. I’m pregnant.”

After a beat, I added,

“It’s not yours.”

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the send button, then hit it anyway. The silence on the other end was almost satisfying. Grown-ups have needs sometimes. Sometimes you just want to feel something, even if it’s messy. I tossed my phone onto the bed, the screen lighting up with his unread reply, and let out a dry laugh. Ha. Classic.

Ryan Maddox and I were basically childhood sweethearts. His circle was always drama-free, so, well, things happened.

We’d grown up on the same block, scraped our knees on the same cracked sidewalks, shared ice cream cones in the July heat. He was the one who taught me how to skip rocks and tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. His crew never cared about drama—just backyard bonfires and late-night diner runs. It was easy to slip, to let the lines blur. So, well, things happened.

Last night was insane.

He’d dragged me from the bathroom all the way to the big bay window. I remember my socks sliding on the hardwood, my laughter bouncing off the walls, his hand warm and insistent around my wrist.

We left a trail of laughter and half-empty beer bottles, city lights painting stripes across our tangled limbs. The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world that made sense—burned in my mind. But then his phone rang in the morning, and just like that, he was gone. Didn’t even remember to grab me a cup of chicken noodle soup from the diner down the street. Typical.

When I showered, those imaginary comments popped up again.

It was like my brain had installed a permanent peanut gallery. Seriously, brain? Give it a rest. No matter how hot the water, the voices wouldn’t wash away. They picked apart every memory, every glance, every word I’d ever said to Ryan, twisting them into something ugly.

After thinking it through, I got it: I was the girl bro everyone wanted to slap.

Ryan was actually meant for someone else.

His disappearing act that morning? Yeah, that was for her.

The realization hit with a dull thud. Of course he left. Of course he had somewhere better to be—someone better to see. The girl he’d been talking about for weeks. The one who made his eyes light up. I’d seen that look before—back in high school.

Ryan had been into that girl for a week. Every morning, rain or shine, he’d show up at her coffee shop, pestering her. Who even orders lavender syrup?

He’d started ordering the weirdest drinks—oat milk lattes with extra cinnamon, cold brew with lavender syrup—just to have an excuse to talk to her. He’d show up with his hair still damp from the shower, pretending he was just passing by. Everyone in our group chat knew. I guess I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

Still. I couldn’t help myself. I was curious.

Were those nasty comments real, or just in my head?

I needed to see for myself. Maybe I was looking for proof that I wasn’t just the villain in my own story. Maybe I wanted someone to tell me I wasn’t crazy. So I put on my favorite old denim jacket—his initials, still in faded Sharpie, on the inside pocket—and headed out.

When I showed up at that coffee shop, Ryan looked like he’d seen a ghost.

The girl was leaning over, handing him a coffee. Her hair brushed his arm, and when he looked up, he met my eyes—totally thrown off.

“Le—Layla...”

The girl glanced at me.