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LEATHER

CAMDYN

The glove. When a player makes a great fielding play, he is said to have “flashed the leather.”

G uess who asked me on a date?

Bitchy little baseball player. He’s not a bitch anymore, though. He’s stepping up to the plate.

I’m so damn proud, aren’t you? And he showed up for me at the World Series.

Not only did I pitch the game of my life, I was finally confident.

Not just because I knew he was there, but because of him—because of what we went through, I learned to depend on myself and hold myself accountable.

I realized I could do anything, with or without Jaxon in my life.

And just so we’re clear, he’s in my life now.

I keep checking the clock, even though it’s pointless.

Five minutes ago, I was standing in front of my mirror debating whether to change my top for the third time, but it’s too late now.

The sun’s still high, slanting through the window and making everything in the dorm look golden and kind of unreal.

My hands won’t stop fidgeting with the hem of my crop top.

I picked it because it says: “I’m trying, but not too hard. ”

At least, that’s what I hope.

My legs are bare and I can feel a breeze from the open window brush my shins. Early June in Seattle is this weird mix of warm and chilly, like the weather can’t decide if it’s summer yet.

Across the room, Callie’s upside down on her bed, legs propped on the wall, phone on her stomach.

“He literally left me on read,” she says, for what has to be the sixth time.

“Like, bro, get it together. Seriously, Cam, if he texts ‘wyd’ at midnight again I’m blocking him.

” She looks up when I don’t answer. “Where are you going?”

“Date with Jaxon…” I say, glancing at her, feeling that flutter in my chest. For over a year, I prayed every day I could say those words again, and now it feels unreal. Like I don’t deserve to be this happy. But I know I do. I wonder if Jaxon’s as nervous as I am. Probably not.

“Everything okay?” she asks, brow furrowed. “We’re not freaking out, right? I’m not gonna have to call the CDC on this date, right?”

“Nope,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Honestly, this feels different. Like a real shot at something good. “I’m just nervous. It feels too good to be true, you know?”

“Babes, you deserve this, don’t ever doubt that.” I smile and she glances down at her phone, frowning. “Ugh. What a brat.”

I pull on a lilac crop top that makes my tits look fucking amazing and slide my feet into my Birks under my bed. “What’s wrong?”

She sighs, flipping her phone over, rolling her eyes. “Jameson’s being stupid.”

“Wait,” I turn toward her, curiosity pulling me in. “What happened with you and Sawyer?”

“He’s… I don’t know. Dating that girl on your team. Zoey? I don’t care.” She rolls her eyes again, voice dripping with annoyance. “And Jameson is being so bratty about stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Like, we started talking again and he keeps bringing up old shit, saying he can’t trust me like he used to.” Her shoulders slump. “I don’t know why I’m even trying.”

I nod because drama has a permanent season pass in our group. We’re in college. All our relationships are complicated and, well, complicated. “Babes, you kinda led him on a few times. It makes sense he’s cautious.”

Callie stares at me. “Nooo, this is different.”

I can’t tell her it’s not. She won’t listen anyway. “Maybe he just needs some time.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

See? Told ya. She’s not going to listen to me. I know exactly what Jameson’s feeling. I’m there myself, but Jaxon showed up for me—he didn’t make it about himself. He made the whole night about me.

Callie sits up, hair a mess, like she can see straight through me. “You’re freaking out, aren’t you? About Jaxon.”

I want to deny it, but what’s the point? “Yeah,” I admit, chewing my lip. “I don’t know. What if it’s awkward? Like we forgot how to talk?”

“You won’t,” she says, softer now. “You two were always good together.”

I try to believe her, but my stomach’s doing somersaults. I keep picturing him knocking on the door, that half-smirk on his face, and me standing here like an idiot—or worse, someone who still cares too much. The hallway outside is quiet, and every time a door slams somewhere else, my heart jumps.

The air smells like Callie’s vanilla candle and leftover rain from the morning.

I stare at the flickering candle on her nightstand, trying to slow my breathing.

I tell myself it’s just a date. We’ve done this a thousand times.

But not like this—not after breaking up, not with all this hope and fear tangled together.

My phone buzzes. Fork Guy. He’s made a group chat with me and Jaxon.

FORK GUY

hey lovebirds!

remember, forks make the best wingmen

sending good vibes!

jaxon don’t mess this up or i’m flying in with a karaoke mic.

I grin, my mouth twitching into a smile. I text back.

Camdyn

no pressure or anythinggg

My phone buzzes again—a selfie from Jaxon. He’s leaning against the doorframe, eyebrows raised, hair flopping over his forehead, and the caption says:

Jaxon

I got this

He’s trying to look all suave, but his left eye’s squinting like he can’t figure out the sun, and he’s holding wildflowers like he won them in a fight. I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to grin so hard my face cracks.

There’s a knock at my door, right on cue.

My heart does this weird little jump and then decides to hang out somewhere in my throat.

For a second, I think about pretending I’m not here, just to see what he’d do—call, text, or climb through the window like a Romeo with questionable balance? But I’m not that brave, or that mean.

I open the door and there he is: Jaxon, in all his nervous glory.

He’s wearing a black button-up that looks like it lost a fight with the iron (or won, if you’re into “wrinkle chic”).

He’s got that lopsided grin that makes me want to both roll my eyes and melt.

The wildflowers in his hand are half-dandelions, half-whatever was growing by the bike racks.

At least he didn’t bring me a fern or, like, poison ivy.

“Ready, girl?” he says, holding out his hand. His voice is soft, almost shy, and for a second I see the kid version of him—the one from eighth grade, hair sticking out from under his hat like he was smuggling a squirrel, calling me “girl” like he invented the word.

Okay, pause. Why does that one word still make me want to laugh and swoon at the same time? It short-circuits my brain and drops me back into that first study session, the one where he sat next to me pretending to be cool but kept tapping his pencil so hard it broke in half.

“Absolutely,” I say, and my hand finds his so easily it’s embarrassing. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and steady, and for a second I forget every single thing I worried about—awkward silences, saying the wrong thing, what if this is a disaster.

Instead, I stand there, holding his hand, and all I can think is: If this is what starting over feels like, maybe I’m actually ready.

I say goodbye to Callie and she looks up from her phone. “Jameson gave my number to some guy who asked if I like ramen?”

Jaxon and I both start laughing, but we leave anyway. “How many people do you think Fork Guy texts in a day?”

Jaxon laughs. “I don’t think we want to know.”

We drive up to Kerry Park, a tiny lookout with the biggest view of Seattle.

The sky’s got that watercolor thing going on—pink bleeding into orange, orange melting into lavender, the sun sliding down behind the Space Needle like it’s trying to photobomb every picture.

Down below, the city lights flicker on one by one, and off to the east, Mount Rainier sits, majestic and quiet, like it’s in on our secret.

Jaxon parks his dad’s old pickup under a tree that’s probably seen more make-out sessions than a campus dorm. The truck looks every bit its age—dings, scratches, a “Seattle FD” sticker on the bumper.

He hops out, opens my door, and leads me around the back. The old red Ford’s bed is scattered with a pile of pillows and blankets—it seriously looks like he robbed a home decor aisle. I half expect to find a cheese board and a scented candle back there.

“Damn. Bed and sunsets? Looking to round home plate, aren’t you?” I tease, raising an eyebrow as I kick off my sandals and climb up after him. The metal’s warm, but the air’s cooling, and everything smells like summer—cut grass, city breeze, a hint of Jaxon’s cologne.

“Mmm, I’d settle for a base knock,” he says, grinning and patting the spot next to him. His eyes catch the gold in the sunset, all soft and mischievous, daring me to call his bluff.

I flop down beside him, sinking into the pillows.

The world feels both huge and impossibly close—the city stretching out in front of us, the sky putting on a private show.

The truck bed creaks as we shift, and for a second I wonder what people walking by must think—two kids in a beat-up truck, staring at the sky like it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen.

Jaxon hands me a wildflower he must’ve rescued from the bouquet, and I tuck it behind my ear, feeling a little ridiculous but also weirdly happy.

We’re quiet for a minute, listening to the city’s hum.

The Space Needle glows against the darkening sky, and I realize my nerves have melted away, replaced by something lighter—something like hope.

If this is what a second first date looks like, with sunsets and pillows and the city below us, I could get used to it.

We curl up under the blanket, city lights flickering on below. A playlist hums softly from the truck’s speakers, mixing old-school jams with random songs Fork Guy probably suggested.