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I pocket my phone and stand, weaving down the aisle to where Jameson sits with his head pressed against the window, AirPods in and jaw clenched tight. For a second, I just hover there, not sure what to say. I want to tell him I know how it feels, that it’s not just him fighting ghosts out there.
“Hey,” I say, low enough so nobody else hears. “If ya wanna talk—about Callie, or the game, or whatever—I’m here.”
Jameson doesn’t look at me. He slides an AirPod out, glances up, and his eyes are flat and cold. “I’m good,” he mutters, then jams the AirPod back in and turns away, shoulder pressed hard to the glass.
I stand there aa beat, waiting like maybe he’ll change his mind. He doesn’t. Well, I tried.
I head back to my seat, the weight of everything pressing down. It’s too much to carry alone, but that’s what we do, I guess. That’s what we’ve always done.
I stare out into the darkness, wishing things were different. Wishing I hadn’t blown it with Camdyn, wishing I knew how to fix things with Jameson—but all I have is this empty seat, this silence, and a bus full of ghosts.
CHAPTER 27
CHECKED SWING
CAMDYN
A batter checks a swing by stopping it before the bat crosses the front of home plate.
“Can I get an iced white chocolate cold brew with salted caramel cold foam?”
There are a few Starbucks carts on campus, but this one is wedged between the brick walls of Kane Hall and some overgrown rhododendrons, their pink petals already littering the concrete. The smell of espresso mixes with the sweetness of late spring flowers, and honestly, it's perfect.
The barista—his name tag says “Brayden”—has that classic Seattle coffee guy vibe: flannel rolled to his elbows, vintage band tee underneath, showing off a tattoo that's probably meaningful but looks like a toddler drew it. He’s been trying to catch my eye since I walked up, making the espresso machine sound like a damn rocket launch.
“Coming right up,” he says, smiling a little too long. “Extra cold foam, on the house. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”
Hmm. Is that code for “you look like shit”?
He's cute, in that indie-band-drummer way. A month ago, I might’ve flirted back, maybe even scribbled my number on a napkin I’d never answer. But now? All I can think about is Jaxon, and how he’d bring me coffee before my 8 a.m. class, always with some dumb note on the cup. Stick figure drawings of me striking out batters, complete with sound effects in his messy handwriting.
On days like this, that feels like forever ago, even if it was just weeks.
I slide my money across the counter.
Brayden keeps up the charm, making my drink like it’s performance art. It’s just cold brew, but he’s making it complicated. “So, you play softball?” He nods at my Husky softball shirt. Can’t tell if he's checking out my chest or just making conversation. Maybe both. “I’m more of a chess guy, but I throw a mean frisbee.”
Part of me wonders if he read Inez’s blog post before she took it down. Now, every time someone’s nice, I wonder: Did you read it? Is this pity?
I manage a polite smile, but he lost me at “chess.” It’s sweet, his attempt at flirting, but it reminds me how Jaxon would’ve already dropped three terrible puns by now.
I watch Brayden drizzle caramel I didn’t ask for, but I appreciate it—especially since practice is gonna be brutal in this heat. I know I shouldn’t bitch about eighty degrees in May, but if you live here, you get it: one day it’s fifty, the next it’s summer.
There’s not a cloud in sight. Cherry blossoms carpet the quad in pink, and Drumheller Fountain throws crystals of water into the sunlight. Students sprawl everywhere, backpacks abandoned like deflated balloons. The air is fresh-cut grass and espresso from the line snake away from the cart.
A guy’s about to decapitate someone with a frisbee, and a group of tour guides are herding wide-eyed high schoolerspast Red Square, shouting about “top-ranked programs” and “vibrant campus life.”
A few professors hurry by in wrinkled shirts, clutching their fourth coffee of the day. The HUB is buzzing—it’s that time of quarter when everyone pretends finals aren’t a thing.
There’s a couple in the grass, pretending to study. By the way he’s whispering in her ear, studying isn’t the plan.
A seagull swoops to steal a sandwich wrapper, chaos erupts, and a girl shrieks as the bird shits on her. Welcome to campus.
From the Music Building, someone’s practicing violin, notes floating across campus like the soundtrack to this perfect Seattle afternoon.
The sun’s hot on my face, already making my nose pink, but after months of rain, none of us can resist soaking it in.
My eyes slide to the couple again. I’m jealous, but only because I miss Jaxon. I miss the flirting, the sex, the friendship.