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I tell myself I know what I’m doing. Sometimes, though—okay, most of the time—it’s a lie. If you’ve ever been in love, you know this feeling. You know how hard it is to let go when all you want to do is hold on tighter.
Some might wonder if I’ve dated since we broke up.
Nope.
I keep hoping he’ll change his mind and want us again. I’m sure he loves me; he just needs to get his shit together.
“It’s not that I don’t love you, Cam,” Jaxon says, standing next to the end seat on the row we’d been sitting in. The morning light finally breaks through the clouds, casting long shadows across the infield dirt. “I think I always will. But I think we both need to experience life outside of us.”
“Are you ready for that?” I ask, my eyes on the baseball field—a place where, two years ago, I knew I loved the one next to me. Back when we were high school recruits touring campus, before scholarships and expectations complicated everything. “Are you ready for me to move on and not be there for you?”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to be ready for that.” His voice is quiet, nearly lost under the crack of batting practice echoing from the cages. He glances at me, and then away. “But we need to try.”
I don’t say anything else. I don’t understand why he thinks we need to try. If you love someone, and enjoy being with them, why do you need to experience other people?
Jaxon turns toward the field, his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. He stares out at the baseball field and I wonder what he’s thinking about. The grounds crew has finished their morning routine, leaving perfect chalk lines on the freshly dragged dirt.
For so long, baseball has been Jaxon’s escape. When his dad almost died in a fire, it was baseball that got him through it. When his friends partied, Jaxon was at practice. When his friends went on vacations during the summer, Jaxon was at tournaments, in front of college scouts trying to make a name for himself. For what, though? To get to UW and wonder if the sport would ever give back what he put into it?
Something happens when you play at the collegiate level. The pressure to perform increases, and you’re left wondering if you love it the same way you did when you were younger—when itwas just you and your glove and the sound of the ball hitting leather.
And maybe that’s the case with being in a long relationship. Maybe that’s what Jaxon’s experiencing. A pause. A moment to understand what life without it would be like.
I’m not entirely sure I understand Jaxon’s reasons for our breakup, or him wanting to see other people, but it’s now, while his sadness is clearly on display, that he too is hurting. I crave the way it used to be with him. When I didn’t fall in love because I found a guy. When I fell in love with what I found in him. When it was uncomplicated. Easy. It wasn’t anxious or impatient like it is now.
In baseball, if the catcher drops the third strike, the batter gets a shot—a wild scramble, a chance to run for first. Love’s like that too. Sometimes, after you think it’s over, there’s still a chance to run—to prove something, to change the outcome. It’s messy, unpredictable, and never as final as it feels in the moment.
CHAPTER 2
DROP BALL
CAMDYN
A pitch that moves downward as it approaches the plate.
“I’ll be your Valentine.”
Sprawled across my twin XL bed—the cheap mattress pad doing nothing to cushion the plastic-covered springs—I scroll through my sad-as-fuck playlist. I don’t look up at Callie bouncing around our cramped dorm room, her feet padding against the industrial carpet that’s probably older than both of us. I hate how annoyingly positive she can be.
“Go fuck yourself,” I mumble, adding another Taylor Swift song to the mix. The fairy lights strung across our cinder-block walls cast a soft glow that doesn’t match my mood. I don’t even like Taylor Swift, but it seems fitting, so why the fuck not.
“That’s harsh.” Holding up her candy bag—the same one she’s been parading around campus—she gives me puppy-dog eyes, and I want to throw my spin ball at her face. “I have candy.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve chucked the ball at her. The dent in our mini fridge proves that.
“Not really.” I hold out my hand, my laptop sliding precariously on my lap. “Gimme the candy.”
“No.” She pulls the bag back, the plastic crinkling. “Why do you hate Valentine’s Day? No girl does.”
I set my phone down on my cluttered desk—covered in softball stat sheets and half-finished psychology homework—and lean back against the wall. The cold cinder-block seeps through my Washington Huskies sweatshirt. “It’s a stupid made-up holiday for the lazy mofos who forgot how to rizz.” I grab my pillow and hold it on my lap like some kind of security blanket. In some ways, it is. Do you know how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep with my face smashed into this pillow, trying to muffle the sound so my hallmates don’t hear?
Too many to count.
Callie eyes me, smiling, and curls up next to me with her candy. The bed creaks under our combined weight. She lies her head on my pillow, her dark hair sweeping over my hands, smelling like that expensive Olaplex shampoo she swears by. “Says every girl who doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Nah.” I side-eye her as her long lashes brush her eyebrows. Through our door, I can hear drunk freshmen stumbling down the hall, probably heading to some Valentine’s party. “I actually hate Valentine’s Day. I’d rather deep throat a cactus and suck the devil’s nutsack than celebrate this stupid holiday.”
“Girl, you only hate it because Jesse Miller told you your ass was fat in the sixth grade on Valentine’s Day.”
There’s probably some truth to that, but I won’t admit it. The hum of our ancient radiator fills the silence. “I hate it because it sets unrealistic expectations for men and women.”