Page 157 of Left on Base

But I don’t move. I just watch her laugh, the sound echoing in my head, filling up all the empty spaces she left behind.

Eventually, I turn away, shoulders hunched, ache blooming in my chest. I climb onto the bus, shove my bag under the seat, and stare out the window as the city slides by in a blur.

My phone’s heavy in my hand. I stare at our old texts—her words, her smile, the little digital pieces of what we had. My thumb hovers, trembling.

I type it anyway.

I miss you

I hit send, and for a long moment, the world holds its breath. I wait, stupid and hopeful, for a reply that may never come.

But I can’t stop hoping. Not now. Not when there’s still a runner in scoring position, and I’m the only one who knows how much the game matters.

CHAPTER 30

IN THE HOLE

CAMDYN

An offensive player due up in the lineup after the on-deck batter, two behind the current hitter.

I’m an idiot. Stupid idiot. Why the hell did I send all those damn messages?

Yeah, I’m still freaking out days later.

Why, you ask?

Because his response—an entire twenty-four hours later—was three damn words.

Jaxon

I miss you

So here I am, sitting in therapy. You have to admit, it’s where I should be.

The clock on the wall in the University of Washington counseling office is stuck at 2:43. I stare at it for a full minute, wondering if the batteries are dead or if time just freezes right before you spill your guts to a stranger in a soft cardigan.

“So, Camdyn,” my therapist, Dr. Melanie, says, crossing her legs and giving me that head-tilt you always see on TV, “what would you like to talk about today?”

I almost laugh. Should I say “life,” or just “Jaxon”? Maybe, “the fact my Spotify Wrapped is going to be nothing but sad-girl playlists if something doesn’t change soon”?

Instead, I clear my throat. “Uh, so… there was a blog post about me and what happened last year, and Jaxon and I aren’t talking anymore. Like, at all. And now I’m sad because I can’t even say we broke up again… because we weren’t really in a relationship. If relationships were coloring books, ours was the one where someone lost the crayons.”

Dr. Melanie smiles knowingly. She already knows all about Jaxon and last year, and how she warned me about the whole casual sleeping together thing. Did I listen?

Nope.

“I warned you how confusing a situationship would be after everything you went through,” she says.

I nod, regret burning. “I know.”

She scribbles something in her notebook. I imagine it says, “client doesn’t fucking listen” or maybe “classic Gen Z heartbreak.”

“So, how are you feeling about that?” she asks, voice calm.

I roll my eyes at myself. Obviously not good, Melanie. “I keep telling myself, ‘Focus on you. Take a pause. Understand your worth,’ like I’m a motivational Pinterest board. But then I check my phone every morning, hoping he’ll text. And when he doesn’t, it feels like the world’s ending. Except today, he finally did. Three words: ‘I miss you.’ And, okay, it might be because I sent him sixty texts during my allergic reaction. But I don’t know. Maybe not.” All of it tumbles out in one breath.

Dr. Melanie’s lips twitch. I can’t tell if she wants to say “I told you so,” or if she’s trying not to laugh. “Everything you’re feelingis justified, Camdyn. You’re grieving something real, even if it didn’t have a label. Did you still feel like you lost yourself in it?”

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