Page 191 of Left on Base

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 likea 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 driveup 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 truckbed 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.

Jaxon pulls out a pizza box—classic move, honestly, nothing says romance like pepperoni and questionable cheese. The scent hits me before the lid’s even open, and suddenly I’m not sure if my stomach’s growling from hunger or nerves. Probably both. I grab a slice and take a giant bite, burning the roof of my mouth like a rookie, but I don’t care. Greasy cheese and tomato sauce mixing with the cool night air—somehow, it’s perfect.

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