Page 6

Before I can ask why she won’t date him this month (it’s a different reason every month), Brynn walks into our room holding a single rose, letting in a blast of hallway air that smells like burnt popcorn and someone’s questionable attemptat ramen. “Kingston gave me a rose!” she announces, her eyes full of excitement. “An actual rose!”
Brynn Zimmerman plays with me on the softball team. She’s my catcher—the one who befriended the shy pitcher who rarely talks and overthinks everything to the point of anxiety. Or an ulcer. I’m thinking I might have an ulcer. The bottle of Tums on my nightstand is getting dangerously low.
“Jameson gave me chocolates.” Callie holds up the box as Brynn kicks off her slippers, the fuzzy pink monstrosities landing next to our overflowing laundry basket. “That’s weird.”
I don’t know why but I’m suddenly pissed at both of them for not appreciating their gifts. The LED strip lights Callie insisted on hanging flash an angry red, matching my mood. “You don’t deserve these!” I rip the chocolates from her hands and Brynn laughs. I toss the rest of the candy from the bag in my hand at Callie, some of it getting lost in the abyss between my bed and the wall. “This is why I fucking hate this stupid, made-up holiday!”
Brynn sits next to Callie, the bed frame groaning under the weight of three college athletes. Her eyes flick from Callie to me. The faint thump of bass from someone’s Valentine’s playlist down the hall provides a soundtrack to my breakdown. “What’s with her?”
“Jax is dating Inez.” (And yes, she air quotes “dating,” her silver rings catching the fairy lights.)
“Oh, yeah. I knew that.” Brynn’s lips press into a line and she shakes her head, as if what she’s about to say is cringe. The rose in her hand drops petals onto my chemistry textbook. “She gave him gummy worms for Valentine’s Day.”
And just when I think my mood can’t get worse, it does. “Fuck this,” I grumble and lock myself in the bathroom, the door handle sticky from someone’s hair product.
Even with the bathroom door slammed, I can still hear them talking over the ancient ventilation fan that sounds like a dying car engine.
“It won’t last,” Brynn tells Callie.
“Jaxon and Inez?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not?”
I don’t have to see Brynn’s face to know she’s probably giving Callie a disgusted look. “Their personalities are way different. Inez is super awkward.”
Maybe Brynn is right. They won’t last. Regardless, the pain remains and overshadows everything else. Right now, it hurts more than the breakup did—because now someone else is involved. Before, he wanted less pressure. A break from commitment.
Now... he wants another girl.
I think back to the night we ended our six-year relationship out of the blue. The memory hits me like the smell of his cologne still lingering on the hoodie I refuse to return.
It was the day after the NCAA super regionals ended and Washington was making its first appearance in the Women’s College World Series in fifteen years.
That night, in his dorm room, we ended more than our chances at playoff history.
“Where have you been?”I asked as soon as I saw Jaxon lying on his bed. The place reeked of defeat. “I’ve called you so many times.”
“I’ve been here,” he snapped, finishing his bottle of water. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing for the tension in the air. He tossed the empty toward the trash, missing. It joined a growing collection of protein shake bottlesand Gatorade empties. He stared at the missed shot and then flopped back on the bed, hands covering his face. The Washington Baseball poster above his bed—the one I helped him hang—was peeling at one corner. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. You won’t answer your phone.” I sat on the bed next to him, the familiar squeak of mattress springs a sound I’d heard a thousand times. Jaxon couldn’t even look at me. His MLB The Show game was paused on the TV, blue light casting shadows across his face. “Are you avoiding me?”
“No.” His voice was different. Cold. Detached. Like after losing the state championship senior year. “I needed some time to think.”
Jaxon was always moody, but this felt different. The air between us was heavy, weighted with words he hadn’t said yet.
“How’d the game go?” I already knew. Oregon knocked the Huskies from the Pac-12 tournament. His jersey was crumpled in the corner, still covered in red dirt.
“We lost. Played like shit and it showed.” His voice cracked on the last word, like when we were fifteen and he was still growing into himself.
Silence lingered. I watched the rise and fall of his hands on his stomach, the same hands that used to trace patterns on my back while we studied. He was struggling with more than the game. The “lucky” cap I’d given him freshman year sat on his desk, turned backward like always.
He sat up and hunched over, head down. A group of drunk guys stumbled past his door, their laughter a stark contrast to the heaviness in the room.
“Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer at first. He stared at his hands, calloused from batting practice. “I don’t know but I think we should talk.”