Page 159 of Left on Base

She nods, thinking, then leans back. “Selfish isn’t always a bad word. Sometimes it means self-care. You can’t pitch a shutout if your arm’s broken, right? Same with your heart. If you keep patching things up, eventually the tape fails, and you’re left with more hurt than before. You can’t help anyone—not the team, not Jaxon—if you’re running on empty.”

I exhale, shoulders dropping, lighter but fragile—like a balloon tied with too many knots. “I feel like I’m patched up with duct tape and double knots, ready to unravel.”

She gives a small, encouraging smile. “That’s possible. But duct tape can hold a lot, especially if you reinforce it. And you don’t have to do it alone. Keep journaling, meditating, visualizing success. Next time you close your eyes, picture that duct tape getting stronger—woven into your foundation, not slapped over cracks. Even if it tears, you’re not falling apart. We’ll work on it together. And maybe next time, bring me pancakes.”

Sunlight catches the edge of her glasses as she grins. For a moment, the office feels less like a therapist’s room and more like a safe place to start over. “Deal.” I laugh, lighter than I’ve felt in weeks. “But no judgment on my syrup-to-pancake ratio.”

“No judgment here,” she says. “That’s what therapy’s for.”

I glance at the clock. Still 2:43.

After my session,I step into the hallway, the air sharp with that weird campus smell—half coffee, half rain-soaked concrete. My brain feels wrung out, like someone opened a window and let fresh air in.

I head for the athletics hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, moving on muscle memory.

That’s when I see him. Jaxon, in full baseball gear, just out of practice, laughing at something a teammate says as they spill out of the building. The old ache hits, but I keep walking. I tell myself not to look—and of course, I look.

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.”

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