Page 173 of Left on Base

I try again:

Good luck in the World Series

You’re going to crush it

I stare at the blinking cursor. What if she doesn’t even read it? What if she blocks my number? What if Fork Guy is right and I need to be “bolder, bro, like a grand slam confession”?

Delete.

My reflection in the mirror looks skeptical. I try to smile at myself, but I just look like I’m about to puke or maybe cry. Or both. Honestly, I look like someone who’s about to ask the bathroom for relationship advice.

I try:

Is there a chance for us??

Delete.

Do you think we could ever try again?

Delete.

I’m sorry

Not just for messing up, but for not telling you how much you mean to me sooner

Delete.

Still too much. Too soon. Too everything.

There’s an ominous knock. “Sir?” a flight attendant’s voice says, tense in that way people get when they’re ready to snap and change careers. “We need you out here.”

I freeze, thumb hovering over SEND, but the message is a jumble of unsent apologies and accidental typos (“I loaf you” is not the vibe).

Another knock, louder. “Sir, your…friend is trying to organize an in-flight karaoke competition using the intercom. If you don’t come out and handle him, I will personally throw him out at thirty thousand feet. And you with him.”

I stuff my phone in my pocket, stare at my reflection in the warped mirror, and see someone who’s been awake for forty-eight hours, is trying to text his ex while trapped in a flying shoebox, and—oh, perfect—has a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

For a split second, I think about locking myself in here until we land, but knowing my luck, Fork Guy would probably crawl through the ceiling vent to offer me a pep talk and a Capri Sun.

So I open the door and step out, ready to face Fork Guy’s American Idol audition and my own impending emotional doom.

The flight attendant is standing there, arms crossed, murder in her eyes. “He’s your emotional support human, right?” she says. “Come get him before I press the eject button.”

Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Fork Guy, halfway through a passionate rendition of “I Will Survive” for a visibly alarmed toddler and at least one old lady who looks like she’s reconsidering her faith in aviation. The beverage cart is somehow sideways. A man in 12B is filming, probably for the FAA. Fork Guy has found the karaoke mic and is clutching it with the conviction of someone who believes this is his moment to go viral.

All I wanted was a minute to say the right thing. All I got was turbulence, humiliation, and a phone full of unsent texts. And, apparently, Fork Guy’s audition for America’s Got Talent: Airport Edition.

Maybe that’s the problem. I keep hiding out, hoping the right words will show up if I wait long enough. Maybe it’s time to say what I feel, even if it’s messy and awkward and public and probably ends with Fork Guy getting banned from every airline in the continental US.

I sigh, step out, and brace myself to wrangle a karaoke mic from a man who once tried to use a fork as a lightning rod. If the universe wants to punish me with a viral TikTok, so be it. At least I’ll have a story. And hey, if Camdyn’s watching, maybe she’ll appreciate a guy who’s willing to make a complete ass of himself for love—or at least for some really questionable in-flight entertainment.

CHAPTER 35

BARREL IT UP

JAXON

Hitting the sweet spot on a bat.

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