Page 172 of Left on Base

I pocket it because it’s easier than arguing. I feel the cheap plastic pressing into my palm. It’s oddly grounding.

Thirty minutes in, there’s a commotion in the aisle. I look up just in time to see Fork Guy demonstrating a yoga pose—warrior two, directly in the path of the drink cart.

“Sir, you need to remain seated,” the flight attendant says, not even hiding her exasperation.

He does not sit down. “But I’m aligning my chakras! My friend needs good energy! We’re on a romantic rescue mission!”

“Can you please not cause a scene?” I hiss, yanking him back down by his sleeve.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Chill, Baseball Boy. The universe loves chaos.”

The flight attendant gives us a look that could curdle milk. “We’re watching you, sir,” she says to Fork Guy. Then to me: “And you, keep your friend under control.”

I want to crawl under the seat. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the clouds dissolve into nothing. My stomach’s doing somersaults, but there’s a weird steadiness in knowing I’ve left safe ground behind.

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe you have to risk looking like an idiot if you want anything real.

Fork Guy leans over, voice suddenly quieter. “You’ll figure out what to say when you see her. Or you’ll say the wrong thing and then the right thing. That’s how it works, man. People forgive more than you think, if you show up.”

I squeeze the tiny fork in my hand, trying to believe in luck, or fate, or at least the possibility of forgiveness.

“You’re overthinking, bro,” Fork Guy says, reading my face like it’s a grocery list. “Girls love this stuff. Trust me, I’ve watched a LOT of Hallmark movies. The grand gesture always works.”

I snort. “If she throws a drink in my face, I’m blaming you.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “That’s just drama. Means you care. Besides, worst case, you get a story. Best case, you get the girl. Either way, you already jumped.”

Fork Guy might be right.

I look out the window, watching the clouds disappear into nothing. My stomach’s flipping, but there’s a weird steadiness in knowing I’ve left safe ground behind. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe you have to risk looking like an idiot if you want anything real.

It’s somewherebetween hour two and three when I get up to use the bathroom.

The airplane bathroom is roughly the size of a coffin with commitment issues and smells like lemon cleaner and existential dread, with a hint of “ocean breeze.”

I lock the door, try to turn around, and immediately bump my elbow on the wall. My knees are wedged against the diaper-changing shelf. There’s a mystery smudge on the mirror, and for one second, I consider writing a will on the back of my boarding pass.

Fork Guy is somewhere out there, probably convincing a flight attendant to let him realign the beverage cart for “maximum chi,” or explaining how turbulence is “the plane’s chakras shaking off bad vibes.” I just need five minutes where nobody’s waving a lucky fork in my face or narrating my love life for the entire C group.

I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over Camdyn’s name. My heart’s pounding like the landing gear on a bumpy runway.

I type:

Heyyy

Delete. Too casual.

I’m sorry

Delete. Too pathetic.

Ik I’m the last person you want to hear from

Delete, delete, delete.

The turbulence kicks in, and I nearly drop my phone in the sink, which is, by the way, approximately the size of a hamster’s bathtub and currently dripping something that’s probably not water. That’d be peak Jaxon: finally confess my feelings, immediately short-circuit my phone, die alone, funeral sponsored by United.

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