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He tosses his head back, staring at the sky. “Then you shouldn’t have done it. Why’d you even say yes?”
He’s mad, but honestly? I’m madder. And confused. How did I end up here, doing things I never wanted, feeling things I never asked for?
And then I nod to myself. “Oh, right. That’s how.”
Nathan glares, the bass from a nearby club vibrating the sidewalk, my heels humming with it. “I don’t see why you can’t let him go. He’s moved on.”
My phone vibrates in my clutch—a text. I ignore it, probably Callie checking in. The screen glows blue inside my bag.
And honestly, I’m too pissed to care.
Nathan’s wrong. Jaxon was holding onto me too, just not in a way everyone could see. He never mentioned me to his friends. They didn’t know we talked every day since eighth grade, or that even after breaking up, we still hooked up.
Jaxon kept me private, so everyone made their own assumptions. They thought he hated me, or at least didn’t want me.
He cared, though. Loved me in his own way. I loved him through the times he didn’t feel the same, through the times he didn’t love himself, or the game.
He could hurt me a hundred times, but when he was good to me, my heart fell under his spell and I let the cycle repeat, hoping one day it would change.
It’s like knowing your curveball isn’t working, but you keep throwing it, praying the next one will break right.
I keep holding onto Jaxon, hoping the next chance will be the one that makes him realize he wants me back.
“I want to leave,” I say, and this time he listens.
The drive back is silent except for Nathan talking about soccer—I tune him out. Because guess who finally texted me?
Jaxon
Sorry, baseball sucks rn
It's not you
I flip my phone face-down in my lap. Of course he finally texts while I’m trapped on the worst date imaginable. He’s had a rough few weeks since his injury, but he got right back in, broken nose and all. The memory of that fastball still makes my stomach turn.
“Hey,” Nathan says as I get out of the car, BMW engine purring. He grabs my hand across the console. “If you ever decide to move on, call me. When you’re done in the minor leagues of dating.”
What a tool. I’m about to cry and the last place I want to do it is next to this smug soccer player’s BMW, in a hot pink dress with my ass cheeks hanging out.
The elevator feels like a confessional booth, just me and my mascara-streaked reflection. The fluorescent lights make everyone look like extras from The Walking Dead, and someone’s written “Bailey gives good head” in Sharpie on the wall. Stay classy, UW.
Callie’s sprawled on her bed when I burst in, still in her pajamas, scrolling TikTok. String lights cast everything in warm gold, lavender oil in the air. She takes one look at me and sits up.
“Oh, honey.”
That does it. I collapse onto my bed, still in the pink heels, and cry. Tears run hot and fast, smearing whatever makeup survived Nathan’s kiss. Through the wall, our neighbors shout about blue shells over Mario Kart.
“What happened?” Callie’s beside me now, arm around my shoulders. She smells like coconut shampoo and vanilla candle. “Did Nathan?—”
“Jaxon finally texted me.” My voice cracks. “Like he knew. Like he always fucking knows.”
“Knew what?”
“That I went on this stupid date. That I let Nathan kiss me. That I—” I kick off the heels. One hits Callie’s dresser, probably leaving a dent. I can’t care. “What was I thinking?”
“You were trying to move on,” she says gently, running her fingers through my hair like my mom used to. “You’re allowed.”
I grab a pillow, hugging it close. It still smells faintly of Jaxon’s cologne from the last time he was here, pretending to study. “Nathan kept touching me, and talking about himself, and all I could think was, ‘this isn’t right, this isn’t him.’”