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But maybe what’s even scarier? I’m more afraid of moving on than staying stuck. Like a batter who keeps swinging at high fastballs, even though everyone knows she’ll miss. Especially her mom.

“You got this,” Callie says, giving me a final once-over. “Text me if you need an emergency extraction. I’ll call and pretend to be your mom. Or a hospital. Or the CDC.”

“The fuck? Why the CDC?”

She stuffs dollar bills in my bra, which are smooshing my boobs like hot pink pancakes in this dress. The bills feel like little judges. “Yeah. Maybe you got monkeypox.”

“That’s not even a thing anymore.”

“Nathan doesn’t know that. Soccer players aren’t exactly reading medical journals.”

I look at the bills. “Are you seriously stuffing singles in my bra? What am I, a stripper at a sad bachelor party?”

“Emergency fund,” she says, adjusting another bill. “In case you need to get home.”

“I have a credit card, you know.”

“Yeah, but nothing says ‘my roommate believes in me’ like sweaty dollar bills in your cleavage.” She steps back, proud. “And you might need to make it rain if Nathan starts reciting soccer stats again.”

Kill me. “I hate you.”

“You love me. Now go make questionable choices. But not too questionable. I don’t want to call the CDC for real.”

“Mhm.”

I shuffle into the hallway, my heels making that click-click-click soundtrack for bad ideas. A girl from our floor—Katie? Kaitlyn? The stress-baker—passes by with her laundry.

“Oh my god, you look so pretty, Camdyn!” she gushes, nearly dropping her detergent. “That dress is everything.”

“Thanks,” I manage, and for a second, I almost believe her. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I’m not crazy for going.

My phone buzzes.

Instagram notification.

And just like that, I’m back to wanting to crawl into Katie-or-Kaitlyn’s laundry basket and hide till Nathan forgets I exist.

The elevator doors groan shut. My reflection stares back at me from every mirrored wall, and honestly? It’s a lot. Like a fun house with infinite versions of me in this too-pink dress, all of us questioning our life choices.

You know what would fix everything? If this elevator just stopped. Right here, between floors three and four. Sure, I’d have to pee in the corner eventually, but at least I wouldn’t have to go on this date. Being trapped in an elevator is better than being stuck in feelings for Jaxon.

I check my phone. Still nothing. The fluorescent lighting makes me look like a Barbie left in the microwave. It’s bad. And these heels? My calves look great, but my feet are already staging a revolt.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Break down. You can do it.”

It dings and opens at the lobby.

Stupid elevator.

My reflection multiplies one last time. Pink dress, nervous eyes, phone clutched like a lifeline. All four walls of me, waiting for a text that isn’t coming.

Guess the elevator’s more reliable than Jaxon.

The spring air is sharp as I step outside, carrying that Seattle mix of cherry blossoms and Starbucks coffee.

Nathan’s already waiting, leaning against a brick column with the kind of confidence that says, ‘I know I look good.’ He does, in a preppy athlete way. Designer jeans, white button-down, Adidas Sambas. His hair is perfectly tousled like he spent twenty minutes making it look effortless.

My phone feels heavy in my clutch. I checked it before coming down. Still nothing from Jaxon. If he’d texted, I’d have bailed, no question. But he didn’t, so here I am, looking like I belong working Pike Place in a too-pink dress and heels already pinching.

“Gawdamn,” Nathan says, pushing off the column. His eyes travel down my body, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch. “Pink’s definitely your color.”

Jaxon always said lavender was my color. Said it made my eyes look brighter.

“Thanks.” I tug at my hem, suddenly aware of how much leg I’m flashing. My ass cheeks are basically out. “So, where’s this amazing dim sum place?”

“Dragon Palace. Downtown.” He steps closer, cologne swirling around me—something expensive and woodsy, probably costs more than my whole perfume collection. Not like Jaxon’s soap-and-sun smell. “My car’s this way.”

Of course it’s a black BMW. The kind that screams, “my trust fund has a trust fund.” The interior is so spotless it probably costs more than my wardrobe, meal plan, and that econ textbook I never bought.

Word is, Nathan’s parents are loaded—his dad’s some tech genius, and his mom doesn’t have to work.

Their dog probably has more followers than me.

Nathan drives with one hand, the other on the gear shift, occasionally brushing my knee when he changes gears. I’m positive it’s on purpose. I’m also positive we might die, since apparently BMW turn signals are optional and speed limits are just suggestions.

“So,” he says, glancing over while barely missing a cyclist who flips us off, “What made you finally text me back?”

“Oh, uh, it’s hard during season, so I wasn’t ignoring you.” Oh god. I sound like Jaxon. And my stomach flips, half from his driving, half from channeling my ex.

My knuckles are white on the door handle as he weaves through traffic like he’s auditioning for Fast my ass is probably imprinted on his fender. “I had a good time tonight.”

Has he been smoking something?