Page 95 of Left on Base

I don’t want Brynn’s advice, but has that ever stopped her? She acts like she’s a damn expert on dating, but she and Kinghave never actually dated. They never get past the talking/fucking/ghosting stage.

“A situationship is a relationship to one person and nothing to the other. If it was mutual, you’d be in an actual relationship.”

“Brynn!” Callie gasps, looking horrified.

“Sorry, but she needed to hear that.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. She’s right. If Jaxon wanted to be with me for real, we would be.

I hate waiting for his texts, and when I don’t hear from him, I spiral—impatient, stupid for thinking he’d change, depressed, anxious, stressed, and honestly, I know it’s my fault because I let him have this power over me.

I told myself I wouldn’t fall back into a situationship with him, but here I am. Face-first. Maybe I have Stockholm syndrome or something—why else would I keep waiting for him to make up his damn mind, even though it’s hurting me and I know it’s bad for me?

That’s Stockholm syndrome, my friends.

So, yeah. After swearing to myself—after the night on the field, after the shower—that I wouldn’t do it again, that my feelings weren’t in it, I snuck over to his dorm again to “see Mookie” and ended up in his bed. Again.

Jaxon’s bed, not Mookie’s, just to be clear.

And now that bitchy little baseball player hasn’t texted me in two days.

The restaurant is perched on the edge of Pier 56, floor-to-ceiling windows showing off Elliott Bay. White tablecloths flutter in the AC, catching the afternoon light. Silverware clinks, conversations buzz, and seagulls sound off past the glass.

It’s not like him to ignore my texts lately. One day, sure—he’s busy. But two days? What the hell? He must be talking to someone else. That’s got to be it. Only explanation.

I pick at my bread, barely tasting it, half-listening to the girls obsess over Paige and her wedding dress. The Space Needle stands out in the distance, ferries cutting trails through the water, a waiter gliding by with Caesar salads.

“Oh my God, girl.” Brynn shoves my shoulder. “Did you hear about Jax?”

Her voice is all casual, which immediately makes my stomach twist. I know her tells by now. My heart jumps into my throat. If she says he’s dating Inez, or any other girl, I’m going to stab this butter knife right through the tablecloth.

“No?” I manage, swirling my spoon through the crab and artichoke dip that’s congealing in its bowl. “What?”

“He took a foul tip to the face when he was on deck last night.”

“Wait. What?” Relief that he’s not with someone else gets instantly replaced by worry. Brynn leans in, light catching in her eyes—there’s a glint there, maybe satisfaction, that makes my skin crawl.

“Yeah. Saw it last night. His face is fucked up.” She grabs more bread, eyes fixed on her plate as she spreads butter with way too much focus.

My heart sinks lower than the tide. Not just because he got hurt and didn’t tell me, but because Brynn knew and I didn’t. Light bounces off the water glasses, little rainbows on the linen as I try to steady my breathing. Behind us, Paige is gushing about invitations, her voice a distant hum.

He didn’t tell me?

“Is he okay?” I ask, trying not to sound jealous. Brynn takes her sweet time, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin like it’s a performance.

She nods, bread waving. “Yeah. Broke his nose, but he’s fine.”

“Oh. You actually talked to him?” My voice cracks higher than I meant. A waiter tops off our waters, the ice clinking like warning bells.

“Yeah. Kingston told me after the game, so I texted Jaxon to check in.” There’s that careful, measured tone again. Her phone—face-down next to her plate—makes me wonder what else she’s hiding.

Wow. Might as well rip my heart out and toss it in the bay. Guess who never replied to my good luck text yesterday before his game?

Jaxon.

He texted Brynn back, but not me? What the actual fuck?

Why do I keep doing this to myself? And the worst part? If he texted, I’d light up like an idiot.

---