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I know, girl. Certifiably crazy.
Cert-a-fucking-fiable, sister.
I clear my throat and grab my water, ice numbing my lips. “Oh,” is all I manage. I’m so pissed my ears are actually burning. I swear.
“Cam.” Brynn takes my hand, her French mani perfect next to my bitten nails. Her bracelet—she started wearing it after that away game in Portland—catches the light. “It didn’t mean anything. We’re just friends. Don’t overthink it.”
Don’t overthink it? Does she know me at all? The way she won’t meet my eyes, how she keeps checking her phone under the table—none of it feels right.
“I know,” I say, but it doesn’t make it easier watching him push me away, talk to other girls like he used to with me. I’m not even mad at Brynn, not really. She’s not trying to hurt me. At least, I hope not. But the way she keeps smoothing her napkin and glancing at her phone makes me wonder what she isn’t saying.
Everyone’s talking wedding flowers and venues. I’m overthinking.
Why do I keep letting this happen? Why do I think it’ll be different, only to let him get away with the same shit again and again?
We flirt, text, fuck, and then I’m right back to obsessing over why he won’t text me. Like I did something wrong.
Why did I do it again? Why did I let him in when I knew he didn’t want more? Because I’m a stupid girl in love with a boy and rethinking all my life choices.
I know you probably want to tell me to walk away. Or maybe you don’t.
Do you?
I need advice because I’m losing my mind, staring at this damn bread basket, checking my phone every two minutes. Still no message. No reply. I know he’s in California, he’s busy, but my brain doesn’t care.
If he was too busy, why did Brynn get a reply and I didn’t? And why does she keep looking at her phone like she’s waiting for something—or someone?
I need to stop. Overthinking, that is.
Also, my mom is here—she’s friends with Callie and Paige’s parents—and she’s staring at me. I’m pretty sure my face is giving away everything, if my silence hasn’t already.
She catches my eye and tips her head toward the door, so I follow her out onto the old planks of the pier. The breeze smells like salt and seafood from the market. A seagull lands nearby, watching us as ferry horns echo across the bay.
Mom stops at the railing, wind teasing her hair, and grabs both my hands. “What’s going on, Cam? Is this about Jaxon?”
The Olympic Mountains are a jagged purple line on the horizon, snow still clinging to their peaks. Kayakers paddle past below, yellow boats bright against the water.
“Cam, honey,” she says, kissing my forehead. The wood creaks beneath us as a wave hits. “Your whole life you’ve tried to please everyone else. At what point do you focus on yourself, on making yourself happy?”
“I don’t think I know how.” My voice barely clears the sound of water.
“You do. You just need to decide you matter. Your happiness is as important as the game you love. You’ll never find it if you keep leaving yourself stranded on base, inning after inning.”
I grip the railing, watching a container ship crawl toward port, the sun catching spray and turning it to rainbows. The water below churns—dark, deep, like my thoughts.
She’s right. I put everyone else first. It’s who I am and I don’t know how to stop.
I think about what she’s saying. If anyone wants me and Jaxon to work, it’s my mom. My dad? He’s still mad about the whole World Series drama, even though it wasn’t Jaxon’s fault, and it’s colored how he sees him.
I tend to think in circles when I’m stressed, if you haven’t noticed.
Back at the table,I slide onto my chair, the leather still warm. A waiter floats by with seafood, garlic and butter making my stomach growl despite the anxiety. Out the window, cranes stand like red-lit robots against the sky. My phone, face-up by my plate, mocks me with its silence.
“You’re totally overreacting,” Brynn says, cutting into her salmon. Her tone is a little too casual, like she rehearsed this.Her phone vibrates for the third time in five minutes. “He’s probably just focused on the game tonight. They lost by one run last night, and if they don’t take the series, they have to sweep ASU and WSU.”
Gee, thanks, Brynn. Like I don’t know this. The fact that she knows all this and acts like I don’t? Fucking irritating.
I stab at my halibut, lemon and butter pooling on the plate. My fingers itch to text him—a quick “Heard about your nose, are you okay?” But my pride (what’s left of it) holds me back. “Right. Focused enough to text you back, though.”