Page 201 of Left on Base

Suddenly, the garden is a battlefield of giggles and chaos—petals flying, King ducking behind a topiary, Brynn filming the carnage for her Stories.

Callie, of course, is in the thick of it, pelting Jameson like she’s been storing up this moment her whole life. Nobody can tell if they’re flirting or plotting each other’s downfall. One minute she’s shrieking at him for getting petals in her hair, the next she’s laughing so hard she nearly falls into a bed of begonias. Jameson grabs her hand to steady her, and for a half-second, there’s this weirdly charged silence—then she yanks away and hurls a daisy in his face.

“Can you two kiss or kill each other and get it over with?” King calls from behind a wall of sunflowers.

“Shut up, King!” they shout in perfect unison, then glare at each other like they can’t decide whether to storm off or make out behind the marigolds.

Fork Guy, never missing a beat, tries to broker peace by offering them a joint tarot reading on “romantic combat,” but they both threaten to bury him in hydrangeas.

By the end, we’re all breathless and covered in flower bits, looking like we’ve survived the world’s most colorful food fight.

Camdyn leans into me, her hair still tucked with that stolen bloom, and whispers, “Best battlefield ever.”

I grin, thinking how weird and perfect it all is—especially with this crew.

CHAPTER 42

BLOOP

JAXON

A softly hit, accidental hit, or fly ball that goes over the infield but out of reach of the outfielders for a base hit.

Believe it or not, we’re still all alive. For now. Day four, we’re at the Dubai Mall, which is less a mall and more a small country with a Cheesecake Factory. Fork Guy insists on sampling every free snack table in the food court—dates, fancy chocolates, something suspiciously neon-green that he claims “cleanses the chakras.”

He manages to charm a group of British tourists into joining him for a spontaneous dance-off right in front of the aquarium, waving his plastic tiara as a trophy. The security guard just shakes his head and mutters something about “Americans.”

Jameson and King get lost trying to find the VR park. Brynn drags them into a store selling gold-plated sneakers, and Callie nearly faints at the price tags.

Through it all, Camdyn and I trail behind the chaos, hands linked, occasionally stopping to snap photos or marvel at a waterfall inside a shopping mall.

She leans into me and whispers, “I feel like we’re in a different universe.”

I nod, grinning. “One with way more malls and at least one extra Fork Guy than strictly necessary.”

Eventually, we take the world’s fastest elevator to the top of the Burj Khalifa, our ears popping as we shoot past a hundred floors in under a minute. The view is… insane. The city sprawls out forever, all glass and light, the desert humming beyond.

Naturally, Fork Guy tries to take a “gravity-defying fork selfie” near the viewing deck edge. He’s got one foot on the glass, his phone in one hand, and the forbidden hotel fork in the other. “For the ‘Gram!” he yells—and that’s when security swoops in, all business and walkie-talkies.

A guard grabs him by the arm. “Sir, you cannot brandish cutlery with intent to selfie,” he says, dead serious.

Fork Guy’s eyes go wide. “But it’s a spiritual utensil!” he protests, as another guard whips out a pair of plastic handcuffs and snaps them on his wrists.

Our whole group freezes. Camdyn gasps. Jameson starts filming, because of course he does.

Fork Guy, never missing a beat, launches into a passionate speech about the international importance of forks in bridging cultural gaps. “Did you know the fork was once banned in Italy? Look at us now—united by utensils! This is peacekeeping in action, my friend. Also, I have weak wrists, so if you could loosen these a bit…”

My mom sweeps in, hotelier business card in hand, and flashes her best “I’m both charming and terrifying” smile. “He’s with me,” she says. “A little eccentric, but ultimately harmless. Plus, I can upgrade your next vacation for half price.” The head of security looks between Mila and Fork Guy, then sighs, unlocks the cuffs, and tells him to “stick to spoons, please.”

Fork Guy bows, rubbing his wrists. “Thank you for your service. I promise to behave—at least until we’re back at the airport.” Two minutes later, he’s juggling hotel spoons for the concierge and narrating the “great spoon revolution” to a crowd of amused tourists.

As we ride the elevator back down, Camdyn shakes her head, laughing. “How are we not banned from every country by now?”

I shrug, smiling at her. “Mila magic.”

Day five,we take a boat ride down Dubai Creek. Camdyn and I sit at the bow, toes dangling over the water, city lights shimmering all around us. The warm air carries the scent of spices and salt, and every now and then the breeze picks up, tossing her hair across my face. Behind us, King and Brynn are goofing off, pretending to be pirates and yelling “Aye aye!” at passing yachts. Fork Guy is deep in negotiations with the captain, trying to convince him to let Fork Guy steer “just for a second.” There’s a lot of arm waving, a little bit of panic, and a near collision with a party boat full of British tourists who raise their drinks in salute. The captain looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

Callie and Jameson have moved from bickering to stony silence, which is probably an upgrade—or maybe a détente before the next round. Every so often, Callie glances at Jameson like she’s trying to remember if she’s supposed to hate him or not.

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