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PAINTING THE BLACK

CAMDYN

When a pitcher throws the ball over the edge of the plate.

I ’m staring at Brynn’s glove like it just started speaking French. Actually, French would make more sense than what she just said.

The worn leather Wilson’s got the same bewildered look I probably have right now—if catching mitts could have expressions. Which, in this moment of what-the-actual-hell, feels entirely possible.

“Wait.” I grip the ball tighter, my fingers curling into the familiar seams. “Say that again?”

“I said”—Brynn shifts behind the plate in our bullpen by Husky Softball Stadium—“Inez is meeting up with Jaxon at Starbucks today.”

My next pitch clatters into the chain-link fence behind her—a sound that matches the alarm bells going off in my head.

“They’re supposed to talk or whatever,” she adds as she scoops up the ball.

I’m so confused. Like, completely freaking confused.

You know the worst part about being in a situationship?

Besides it being a fucking nightmare, but whatever. You know this already.

Anyway… here’s the worst part. One person always holds out hope it’ll turn into more, and every day they hope it’s that day. Yes, that’s me, raising my hand.

And every day I’m let down when we’re still stuck in the same confusion. It’s exhausting. You ever been so into a guy you stop making plans, just waiting to see what he’s doing first?

Right there with you, sister.

Do you wait to go to bed at night until you know he has, just in case he might text you?

If so, same. Girl. Same.

I know what you’re thinking. Or what I’m thinking, but it’s probably along the lines of: stop waiting on him.

You deserve better. Live your life. Your happiness doesn’t depend on him.

I tell myself that, but I can’t make my heart get on board.

It keeps trying to hold on, thinking Jaxon will finally pull his head out of his ass and love me the way I deserve.

So why am I feeling like this today? Nothing’s changed in the last month—so what gives?

Because of this conversation at practice.

“She really likes him,” Brynn says, squatting back down to catch my next pitch. The thwap of the ball in her mitt echoes off the fence. “Like, really likes him.”

You know what? Fuck this. This is exactly what I didn’t need to hear while watching Lexi, our all-star senior shortstop, butcher a routine grounder.

At least I’m not the only one dropping balls today.

“I guess Inez feels terrible about something that happened,” Brynn continues, and I have to bite back a laugh.

Why is she telling me any of this?

I wind up for another pitch, watching Coach Drew run infield drills. There’s something weirdly therapeutic about watching girls dive for balls while my world slowly implodes.

“She wants to apologize,” Brynn says, tossing the ball back.

My stomach twists into knots, and my next pitch goes wild, sailing over the fence and nearly taking out our right fielder. Oops. Honestly, watching her dive out of the way was the highlight of my practice.

I’m trying to focus on Coach yelling “Two! Two! Two!” during the double-play drill, but all I can think about is Jaxon meeting up with Inez.

I stare at the neon yellow ball in my hand, turning it over and over like I’m searching for answers in the red seams. Here’s the thing about Brynn—and part of why she’s never actually dated King—she thrives on drama and half the time reads situations about as well as a golden retriever writes horoscopes.

For all I know, this Inez-Jaxon coffee date is just Brynn mixing up her gossip again, like that time she swore our assistant coach was secretly dating the baseball team’s bat boy, who turned out to be her cousin visiting from Oregon.

But when it comes to Jaxon, my trust issues have trust issues. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, and every time we get closer to figuring it out, he pulls back. Like he’s not ready, or he’s scared of dating me again.

“Why do you look so sad, babes?” Callie asks as I flop onto my bed after practice, spreading out like a starfish who’s given up on life.

“Brynn said Inez wants to apologize to Jaxon.”

“For what?” Callie’s spinning in my desk chair, eating what looks like Top Ramen with enough seasoning to flavor an entire dining hall. The noodles are basically wearing a dust jacket at this point.

“Apparently he got mad about something she did or said. I don’t know, but whatever it was, they stopped talking because of it.”

His words at the party—when he said “it’s different”—and then his text about “knowing the feeling” when I told him Nathan wasn’t him are starting to make a twisted kind of sense. But now I’m not sure about anything.

My brain’s favorite activity: spinning through worst-case scenarios about why they’re meeting up and why he hasn’t texted me.

“Have you heard from him since he got back from Oregon?”

“No.” I hadn’t, not since the other night when he asked about my date with Nathan. I know he’s back in town—so why hasn’t he said anything?

Callie slurps her nuclear-level sodium noodles. “Really?”

I look at her with curly noodles dangling from her lips like a pasta-faced sea creature. “Not since the other night. I have no idea where he is. Maybe he went to U District or the Ave by himself at night and got kidnapped.”

“Doubtful.” Callie laughs, sets her bowl on my desk, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like the refined lady she is. “Jameson says he’s scared of the dark.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What if he was forced to try Boat?”

“What if... he just forgot?”

“That’s even worse.” I grab my pillow and smoosh it against my face, letting out a muffled scream that probably has my neighbors wondering if they should call campus security.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

I don’t argue—she’s right. I’m the queen of Ridiculous Town and serving a life sentence.

Callie stares at me, confused. “What the hell is Boat?”

I force a smile. “Boat? Oh, it’s wonderful stuff. Wonderful.”

She blinks like I just told her I’m planning to marry a potato. “Mhm,” she says, with that smile people give when they’re humoring someone who’s lost their last marble. “I’m sure.”

I check Jaxon’s location like the stalker I’ve apparently become. Starbucks near the stadium. I grab my phone from my nightstand, possessed by the kind of terrible idea that only makes sense to sleep-deprived college students after 8 p.m. “Come with me.”

“To do what?”

“Um, nothing?”

“Okay.”

You don’t have to try hard to convince Callie to do anything. Unless it’s dating Jameson. Then suddenly she’s got a PowerPoint of reasons she can’t, and I don’t understand any of them.

Five minutes later, we’re power-walking across campus like we’re on a covert mission. Mission Impossible: Situationship Protocol. Tom Cruise could never.

“You know this is insane, right?” Callie whispers as we approach Starbucks.

“Shhh! Get down!” I yank her behind a bush when I spot Jaxon about twenty feet away at the Starbucks cart. Because the universe hates me and apparently subscribes to my personal comedy channel, Inez is there too.

She’s wearing orange leggings. Who wears orange leggings?

Apparently, Inez Deluca.

I know I’m being petty, but her signature oversized black glasses make her look like a hipster owl.

Her black hair’s in that purposefully messy style that probably took two hours to perfect, and she’s got her journalist notebook out because of course she does.

Art major by day, campus newspaper detective by night.

“I can't believe we’re hiding in bushes right now,” Callie mutters, swatting away what feels like an entire bug community that’s decided we’re trespassing.

“This is a new low.”

“Nah, that was when you dressed me like Malibu Barbie for a date and I ended up puking on the floor.”

She slaps my forearm while doing a weird dance to avoid what might be an ant invasion. “That wasn’t my fault!”

“Shh! I’m trying to read their body language!

” I peek through the leaves, watching as Inez tries to engage Jaxon in what’s probably a very deep conversation about underground indie bands I’ve never heard of.

His whole body’s screaming “I’d rather be anywhere else”—shoulders tense, eyes barely leaving his phone, holding it like it’s his only lifeline to sanity. Ha! Take that, Inez!

I’m so busy doing my victory dance in my head, I don’t notice the sprinkler head near my foot. When I try to shift for a better view, my foot catches on it and suddenly I’m auditioning for Olympic gymnastics.

Time slows down as I pinwheel my arms like a windmill in a hurricane. But instead of gracefully recovering like the main character I pretend to be, I face-plant straight into the concrete sidewalk.

CRACK.

“Holy shit! Oh my God, Cam, are you okay?” Callie scrambles over, her voice echoing in the quiet evening air.

I see Jaxon’s head snap up at Callie's voice. His eyes widen when he spots me on the ground, and before Inez can finish whatever she’s saying about her latest art installation featuring recycled coffee cups and existential dread, he’s bolting toward us.

I lift my head, tasting blood and what’s left of my dignity. “Did he see?”

“Your chin is split open and you’re worried if Jaxon saw you eat concrete?”

“...Yes?”

“You need stitches. Like, now.” She helps me up, and I catch my reflection in the athletic training center windows across from the Starbucks cart. Blood is dripping down my chin like I’m a vampire who sucks at drinking.

“Holy shit.” Jaxon’s voice comes from behind, jogging over—because of course. Of course this is happening.

I turn around, trying to smile but probably looking like a serial killer with blood on my face. “Oh hey! Just... testing the structural integrity of your sidewalk. It’s good. Very solid. Ten out of ten, would face-plant again.”

Jaxon chuckles at my attempt at humor but looks concerned and confused, which is fair, because I’m concerned and confused about my life choices too.

Inez follows him over, looking irritated that her deep conversation about whatever avant-garde thing she’s into got interrupted by my graceful swan dive.

“Uh, you need to go to the ER,” he says, handing me napkins to press to my chin. He nods to the parking lot. “I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll drive,” Callie says. “I have my mom’s car this week.”

At least the ER doctors will appreciate my story. Probably. After they stop laughing.

Rule: If he’s talking to another girl, turn and walk away. Or trip and end up in the ER. Either works. Style points for bleeding.