Page 97 of Left on Base

“That was different—” She stops herself, catching whatever she almost said. Her phone lights up and she snatches it up, typing away like her life depends on it.

“How?” I snap, a little too loud. An older couple glances over. I lower my voice. “How is it different?”

“It was just a quick reply. You’re making this bigger than it needs to be.” Her phone buzzes again. She flips it over fast, but not before I see his name. My heart does that stupid little flip, even when the message isn’t for me.

I set my fork down. “Really? Because I seem to remember you throwing your phone across the room last month when Kingston didn’t answer your good morning text for six hours.”

Brynn’s cheeks go pink. She takes a long sip of iced tea, hand trembling a little as she sets it down, immediately reaching for her phone again. “That was... different.”

“Different how? Because it’s you and Kingston?” My own phone sits there, silent and smug. Would it kill him to send one text? Just one?

The ferry horn sounds outside, as if it’s backing me up. A server tops our water, ice clinking in the awkward silence. Brynn’s phone buzzes again and this time she doesn’t hide the smile as she checks it.

“You literally cried in the locker room because he liked some girl’s Instagram post.”

“That was one time,” Brynn says, but I see it in her eyes. She pushes asparagus around her plate, not meeting my gaze. Her phone lights up—seriously, how many texts is she getting? “Okay, fine. Maybe I see your point.”

“The difference is,” I say, watching a sailboat cut across the bay, “you date around, I don’t.” I leave the rest unsaid: she knows exactly what she’s doing, and we both know it. Whatever’s lighting up her phone right now probably explains why mine stays dark.

Callie squeezes my hand. The candles are lit now, reflections turning the windows into mirrors. I catch my own reflection—I look tired. Worn down by hope. Behind me, Brynn is typing under the table, lips pressed thin and guilty.

I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his contact. Three little dots, that’s all I want. Just proof he’s okay, that his nose isn’t as bad as Brynn made it sound, that there’s a reason he’s ghosting me but texting my friend. But sending that message would feel like admitting defeat—showing him, and her, just how much this is killing me.

Brynn’s phone chimes and she giggles before catching herself, shooting me a quick, almost-sorry glance. It lands in my stomach like bad seafood. Suddenly, halibut isn’t appealing—just like my dignity.

Back in my dorm,I sit cross-legged on my bed, phone heavy in my hands like it holds all my worst fears. Outside, the campusglows against the night sky, blurred by rain—steady, unreachable, like any hope I have for something real with Jaxon.

I type.

Delete.

Type again.

Every message feels like a confession I don’t want to make.

Hope you’re okay

Heard about your nose

Delete.

Too casual—like I haven’t spent three hours watching that clip on repeat, like I didn’t sit through brunch with Brynn checking her phone and smirking.

Brynn told me what happened

You could have texted me back

Delete.

God, I sound needy. Pathetic. Like a loser stabbing halibut at brunch while everyone else moves on with their lives.

Must be nice replying to some people and not others

Delete.

Jesus. When did I become this person?

Rain drums against the window. My laptop glows sickly from my desk, tomorrow’s poli sci half-done and forgotten. Who cares about empires when your own tiny world is crumbling? The taste of expensive seafood and betrayal still lingers.

---