Page 43

SLOW ROLLER

CAMDYN

A weakly hit ground ball.

I don’t know if you’re surprised or if you’re just rolling your eyes and saying, “I told you so,” but guess who hasn’t texted me back after I said good luck to him yesterday?

Yep. The bitchy little baseball player. It’s been over twenty-four hours. I have no idea what’s going on. Did I do something wrong? Is he pissed at me?

New rule for you: absolutely do not think he has actual feelings for you.

Brynn helpfully sums this up for me while we’re out at brunch celebrating Callie’s sister getting married.

For context, Callie’s older sister, Paige, is kind of a big deal on campus—a senior, a total basketball badass, and already on her way to the WNBA.

But first, she’s getting married to some basketball star who graduated last year and just got drafted into the NBA.

They’re gonna have little pro baller babies.

“Girl, let me give you some advice about a situationship.”

I don’t want Brynn’s advice, but has that ever stopped her? She acts like she’s a damn expert on dating, but she and King have never actually dated. They never get past the talking/fucking/ghosting stage.

“A situationship is a relationship to one person and nothing to the other. If it was mutual, you’d be in an actual relationship.”

“Brynn!” Callie gasps, looking horrified.

“Sorry, but she needed to hear that.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. She’s right. If Jaxon wanted to be with me for real, we would be.

I hate waiting for his texts, and when I don’t hear from him, I spiral—impatient, stupid for thinking he’d change, depressed, anxious, stressed, and honestly, I know it’s my fault because I let him have this power over me.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall back into a situationship with him, but here I am. Face-first. Maybe I have Stockholm syndrome or something—why else would I keep waiting for him to make up his damn mind, even though it’s hurting me and I know it’s bad for me?

That’s Stockholm syndrome, my friends.

So, yeah. After swearing to myself—after the night on the field, after the shower—that I wouldn’t do it again, that my feelings weren’t in it, I snuck over to his dorm again to “see Mookie” and ended up in his bed. Again.

Jaxon’s bed, not Mookie’s, just to be clear.

And now that bitchy little baseball player hasn’t texted me in two days.

The restaurant is perched on the edge of Pier 56, floor-to-ceiling windows showing off Elliott Bay. White tablecloths flutter in the AC, catching the afternoon light. Silverware clinks, conversations buzz, and seagulls sound off past the glass.

It’s not like him to ignore my texts lately. One day, sure—he’s busy. But two days? What the hell? He must be talking to someone else. That’s got to be it. Only explanation.

I pick at my bread, barely tasting it, half-listening to the girls obsess over Paige and her wedding dress. The Space Needle stands out in the distance, ferries cutting trails through the water, a waiter gliding by with Caesar salads.

“Oh my God, girl.” Brynn shoves my shoulder. “Did you hear about Jax?”

Her voice is all casual, which immediately makes my stomach twist. I know her tells by now. My heart jumps into my throat. If she says he’s dating Inez, or any other girl, I’m going to stab this butter knife right through the tablecloth.

“No?” I manage, swirling my spoon through the crab and artichoke dip that’s congealing in its bowl. “What?”

“He took a foul tip to the face when he was on deck last night.”

“Wait. What?” Relief that he’s not with someone else gets instantly replaced by worry. Brynn leans in, light catching in her eyes—there’s a glint there, maybe satisfaction, that makes my skin crawl.

“Yeah. Saw it last night. His face is fucked up.” She grabs more bread, eyes fixed on her plate as she spreads butter with way too much focus.

My heart sinks lower than the tide. Not just because he got hurt and didn’t tell me, but because Brynn knew and I didn’t. Light bounces off the water glasses, little rainbows on the linen as I try to steady my breathing. Behind us, Paige is gushing about invitations, her voice a distant hum.

He didn’t tell me?

“Is he okay?” I ask, trying not to sound jealous. Brynn takes her sweet time, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin like it’s a performance.

She nods, bread waving. “Yeah. Broke his nose, but he’s fine.”

“Oh. You actually talked to him?” My voice cracks higher than I meant. A waiter tops off our waters, the ice clinking like warning bells.

“Yeah. Kingston told me after the game, so I texted Jaxon to check in.” There’s that careful, measured tone again. Her phone—face-down next to her plate—makes me wonder what else she’s hiding.

Wow. Might as well rip my heart out and toss it in the bay. Guess who never replied to my good luck text yesterday before his game?

Jaxon.

He texted Brynn back, but not me? What the actual fuck?

Why do I keep doing this to myself? And the worst part? If he texted, I’d light up like an idiot.

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.”

“That was different—” She stops herself, catching whatever she almost said. Her phone lights up and she snatches it up, typing away like her life depends on it.

“How?” I snap, a little too loud. An older couple glances over. I lower my voice. “How is it different?”