Page 65

He’s taller than I remember. Or maybe I’m shrinking. He stops at the sidewalk, pulls out his phone—the same cracked iPhone from freshman year. He checks notifications, thumb hovering, then glances up, scanning the crowd. Maybe he’s hoping to spot me. He still has my location. Shit.

I think about his text from the other day—“i miss you.” Three words that unravel me, and here I am, trying to read between the lines.

He checks his phone again, jaw tight, waiting for a message that isn’t coming. Maybe waiting for me. Maybe just waiting.

He looks up. For a second, I think he sees me. My heart leaps. He scans the crowd. Then—oh God—he starts walking my way.

My brain shorts out. Before I know it, I dive—yes, dive—into the nearest hedge. Rhododendrons again. What is it with me and shrubbery? I should carry a leaf blower for emergencies.

Is it mature to hide? Absolutely not. Is it safe? Also no. This branch is trying to impale me. There’s mulch in my sock. My backpack digs into my ribs, and a spider web brushes my face. Not my finest moment.

Then I hear a rustle beside me. For a second, I think it’s Jaxon, and I nearly swallow my tongue.

“Bush Girl?”

I freeze. Only one person calls me that—and it’s not Jaxon. I peek through the leaves.

Yep. Fork Guy. Holding a bruised banana.

He’s crouched beside me peering through the branches. “Are we hiding?”

“Nah.” I try to make myself smaller, impossible at five-foot-eight and the flexibility of a garden gnome. “Just, um, observing local flora. For science.”

“Cool. I love science.” Fork Guy nods like that makes sense and somehow producing a granola bar. Don’t ask about the banana. “Are you hiding from Baseball Boy? Can I join? I’m trying to avoid Rebecca after The Incident. You know, the one.”

I nod. “He texted me ‘I miss you.’ Like it’s that easy.”

He rips open the granola bar, offering half. “Want some? It’s got chia seeds. Good for emotional stability or whatever.” He bites a giant chunk, crumbs flying. “So, you hiding because you’ll cry, or because you want to punch him? I support both.”

I snort, trying to play it cool, tangled in rhododendrons. “I… can’t see him right now. Not yet. I’m not ready. Last time we talked, I said all this stuff about moving on. Now he’s… there. Existing. And I don’t know how to handle it.”

Fork Guy leans back, squinting up at the sky. “Once I hid in a bush to avoid a girl named Violet. She had violet hair and smelled like raisins. She found me anyway and made me buy twenty bucks of Girl Scout Cookies. Now, I lean into chaos.”

I shake my head, laughing. “I’m not ready for chaos. Last time I hid in bushes, I needed four stitches in my chin.”

He grins, waggling his eyebrows. “I brought Band-Aids this time, just in case. And if you need a getaway driver, I’ve got a razor scooter behind the bleachers. Borrowed. Totally borrowed.”

Down the path, I hear Jaxon’s voice—he’s talking to Jameson, but closer than before. My heart stutters. What if he finds me?

Fork Guy nudges me, whispering, “Want me to fake a medical emergency? I can do a convincing faint. Or choke on a fork.”

I shake my head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

He leans in, conspiratorial. “Emerald says hiding in bushes is emotional growth. Or maybe unresolved trauma. I don’t really listen.”

I sigh, watching Jaxon shoulder his bag and walk away, glancing at his phone every few steps. For a second, I wish he’d turn and see me.

A beetle crawls up my sleeve. I flick it away.

Fork Guy rummages in his bag, pulling out Mardi Gras beads, a banana, and a deck of tarot cards bent like they survived a flood. “Emerald says I need to be more in touch with my feelings. Wanna see my gratitude list?”

I stare. “Are you journaling in bushes right now?”

He nods, serious. “Item one: Not attacked by ducks today. Two: This excellent bush. Three: Granola bars with chocolate chips. Four: My new eye patch—look!” He pulls his hair aside to reveal a patch covered in glitter glue and googly eyes.

I know his eye has probably healed but somehow the eye patch is part of him now.

Absurdity hits me. I bite my fist to keep from laughing out loud.

He munches, crumbs everywhere. “Wanna talk? Or just sit until campus security asks why we’re hiding in rhododendrons with baked goods and cutlery?”

I laugh, leaves in my mouth. “Maybe for a minute. Then we escape.”

Fork Guy salutes with a plastic fork. “To emotional growth. Or trauma. Whichever comes first.”

“Yeah.” I sigh, wondering how I got here.

Then he leans in, fork like a microphone. “If you want to make him jealous, I could crawl out first and propose. I’ve got a ring pop.”

“Absolutely not,” I say, but that only encourages him.

He practices in a stage whisper: “‘Bush Girl, from the moment I saw you tangled in foliage, I knew we were meant to share a shrubbery?—’”

I smack him with a leafy branch. “Don’t do that.”

He grins. “Consent is important. Do you think Jaxon would believe I’m your secret boyfriend? I can do accents. Russian? Australian? I once convinced a sub I was from New Zealand for a semester.”

I peek again. Jaxon is finally moving, heading for the parking lot, still glancing back. My stomach drops.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, we emerge.

Fork Guy pats my crumb-dusted shoulder, weirdly comforting. “Bush Buddies for life.”

He offers me a plastic fork. “For self-defense. You never know when you’ll need to fend off emotional baggage or rogue squirrels.”

“Thanks.” I take it. “For a guy who once lost a fork to his own cornea, you’re brave about cutlery.”

He bows. “Exposure therapy, Bush Girl. Maybe next time, benches instead of bushes.”

On the sidewalk, Jaxon keeps walking, oblivious. He checks his phone again, jaw tight. For half a second, it looks like he might turn. But he doesn’t. He disappears with the baseball guys, like a ghost you only half believe in.

I untangle from the bush, brushing leaves from my hair. Fork Guy gives me a thumbs-up and the banana for good measure.

“Thanks for the company.”

“I got you,” he whispers, clutching a plastic fork like a dagger. “I have an airtight alibi involving a lost ferret and a persuasive magician if you need it.”

I snort. He reaches up and touches my hair. “Also, there’s a spider in your hair.”

I brush the spider away, laughing despite myself. Fork Guy grins like he won the weirdest lottery ever.

“Thanks,” I say again, lighter than I’ve felt in days. “For… well, everything.”

He shrugs, stuffing the banana into his pocket. “Hey, sometimes the best therapy is bad snacks and bushes.”

I don’t know what I’d do without Fork Guy.

We step out into the open, the sun breaking through the clouds, campus noise swirling around us like nothing happened. Jaxon is long gone, and maybe that’s okay for now. My heart still aches, but it beats a little steadier.

Fork Guy tosses me a crooked grin, like he knows some secret about getting through the day. I clutch my plastic fork with a weird sort of pride.

Maybe healing isn’t about giant leaps. Maybe it’s banana snacks, ridiculous friends, duct-taped hearts, and surviving another day—one messy inning at a time.

I take a breath, deeper than before, and let campus life sweep me forward. Whatever comes next—super regionals, awkward run-ins, old heartbreaks—I’m still here.

I’m still in the lineup.

And for today, that’s enough.