The Change Up

by Quinn, Meghan

  I bite my bottom lip and say, “It’s not right. You’re changing everything about you.”

  “I’m not.” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “You’re opening my eyes, that’s all.”

  “Still.” I look off to the side, tears welling again.

  “Hey Kinny.” He forces my chin again. And he smiles. “Thank you.”

  “Damn it,” I say as more tears fall.

  He chuckles and pulls me into another hug. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

  “You’ve made me a mess. I don’t want to lose you. And last night, for a second, I thought what I said destroyed everything between us.”

  “It didn’t, babe.” He kisses the side of my head. “It only made us stronger. And it’s going to help me be the man I want to be.”

  * * *

  Maddox: Do you have plans tonight?

  I stare at my phone and smile. Seeing Maddox’s name does all sorts of funny, twisty things to my stomach. After our talk this morning, he made me a bagel with vegan butter, cut up an apple for us to share, and then sent me on my way to work with a pat to my ass. When I squealed, he winked at me and then shut the door. No idea what that was about, but . . . I liked it.

  I still feel wretched and probably will for a long time, because I can’t remember the last time we fought like that. Maybe back in high school . . .

  Either way, when I fight with Maddox, it leaves me drained and split. I feel useless afterwards, because he’s the one person I’ve always been able to rely on and when we fight, it steals the magic of our relationship.

  Taking a second from my workday, I text Maddox back.

  Kinsley: Other than taking a shower when I get home so I don’t smell like wet dog? No.

  Maddox: Want to go out to dinner . . . after you don’t smell like wet dog?

  Kinsley: Are you asking me out, Maddox?

  One of the best ways to repair our relationship—even though he thinks everything is okay, I still feel weird—is to go right back to our teasing, loving relationship.

  Maddox: I am.

  I smile at his response. Always so direct, even when joking.

  Kinsley: I might have to get my ballgown pressed, but I think I can be ready in half an hour when I get home.

  Maddox: I like that you keep saying home.

  My cheeks fire up. Goodness, I’ve been calling his apartment home, but then again, he’s been a fixture of my “home” for a long time now, so I guess it only seems right.

  Kinsley: Do you want me to call it la maison instead?

  Maddox: Your French from high school is still impeccable.

  Kinsley: Merci.

  Maddox: So you and me tonight?

  Kinsley: As if I have anything else to do.

  Maddox: Didn’t know if you were going to give Dudley a second chance.

  Kinsley: Dudley can go to hell.

  Maddox: LOL. Okay, see you tonight, babe.

  Kinsley: See you tonight.

  * * *

  “Oh wow,” I say when the door to the apartment closes behind me. “You look really nice.”

  Maddox is standing in the kitchen with a glass of water in hand wearing a pair of dark jeans and a navy-blue button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled and clinging just below his elbows, showing off his amazingly ripped forearms. And his hands . . . why am I just noticing his hands? How they make the glass in his grip seem tiny, the way his knuckles pop and curve with his hold, the veins on the back. It’s a manly hand, large and wide. Huh . . .

  “You’re staring.”

  Startled. I shake my head and put on a goofy grin. “Sorry, uh, just you know, never seen you so clean before. You’re always dirty. Just the dirtiest. It’s like take a shower every once in a while, man.” I laugh a little too hard.

  He quirks one brow. “You okay?”

  “Nope.” I laugh again and wave. “Going to take a shower.”

  I rush to his room where I grab a change of clothes—dark skinny jeans and an ice-blue blouse—and turn on the shower. I’ve never been the person that takes forever getting ready. I keep my hair out of the water, wash my body quickly and then dry off. I really wanted a change of clothes, because that’s what gets the dirtiest at the shelter, but taking a quick shower doesn’t hurt either, especially when Maddox looks as nice as he does.

  I slip on my clothes, add a little mascara to my eyelashes, fluff my hair, and call it a day. This isn’t a date or anything, but I want to look nice for the man since he has to be seen with me.

  I slip on a pair of heels, spritz on some of my perfume, and head out to the living room where Maddox is perched on the couch with his glass of water, just staring out at the skyline.

  “Ready,” I say while exhaling. I’m pretty sure I took less than twenty minutes to get ready.

  When he swivels his head, I catch the surprise in his eyes as he takes me in. Slowly, deliberately, he scans me, starting with my legs and working all the way up to my face where he meets my eyes with an approving smile.

  He sets his water down on the coffee table and stands. “You look great, Kinny.”

  I do a weird curtsey-bow thing. “Thank you. So where are we going?”

  “There was this place Linc was telling me about the other day. Has some vegan options for you, and some non-vegan options for me.”

  “Are you going to get a slab of meat?” I wince.

  He sighs and takes my hand in his. “I wouldn’t make you watch me eat steak, you should know that by now. There’s a pasta dish I want to try.”

  Feeling guilty, I say, “If you wanted to get steak, you know you could.”

  He squeezes my hand. “And watch my date turn green for the rest of the dinner? I’m good.”

  Date?

  Am I missing something? Surely he just means a friendly date, right?

  Wait . . . of course he does. He’s taken me out many times before, even when he was dating Jamie back in high school. He’s calling me his date, because that’s the kind of guy he is. Thoughts have been weird and jumbled in my head. I’m overthinking every little thing he says or does. I’m distracted by his handsome-ness and kind ways of taking care of me, protecting me.

  I need to get my head on straight.

  Friends.

  We are friends. Repeat that to yourself over and over again. He’s not interested in you. You are friends.

  He’s always held your hand.

  He’s always been touchy-feely.

  He’s always smelled this good . . .

  God, he smells so fucking good.

  “Ready?” he asks, tugging on my arm.

  “Oh, yup.” I nervously laugh. “Ready.”

  He’s your friend. He’s your friend.

  “Good.” He walks me out the door, still holding my hand, locks up, and we head to the elevator, just as the door on the other end of the hall opens and Joan pops out with a loaf of bread in her hand.

  “Oh, there you are, dear.” She waddles over to us and holds out the bread. “This is for you, to apologize for Dudley’s behavior. I asked him what he was thinking and do you know what he said? He told me he was nervous, because you were so beautiful. How silly is that? Then he goes and stands you up. I told him that’s no way to treat a young woman. I told him he better reach out to you and make things right, because you two would be perfect together.” Joan says all this while Maddox holds my hand, as if the giant six-foot-three brick wall isn’t standing right next to me.

  “Oh well, you don’t have to apologize for him,” I say, feeling awkward and taking the loaf.

  “It’s the least I could do. He really is a darling, you’ll see. I told him to call you this week. I do hope you give him a chance.” Finally, she glances to the right and catches sight of Maddox. She slowly looks up until her eyes meet him . . . then they sharpen. “Who are you?”

  Clearing my throat and dropping my hand from Maddox’s, I say, “Joan, this is Maddox. He’s your neighbor, my friend I’ve been staying with.”

  “How
do I know you?” She taps her chin. “You have been in the news.” She takes in his dark appearance and then says, “I hope not for drugs.”

  Good God.

  Before I can stop myself, I say, “Joan, this is Maddox Paige, the number-one pitcher for the Chicago Rebels.” I feel Maddox tense next to me, and I realize my slip-up. He doesn’t like to be known but come on. How stealth can he really be in his building?

  “The Rebels?” Joan shakes her head and then holds up her fist as if she’s part of a cult. “Bobbie for life.”

  I still, wince, and hold my breath as I look over to Maddox, who lightly chuckles and pats Joan on the shoulder. “Shame. If you were Rebel at heart you’d have celebrated a World Series win last season, possibly again this season.”

  Joan’s eyes widen, and I hold back a snort. Maddox did not just say that to an elderly woman.

  Silence falls between us and I try to think of something to say, anything to squash the rising tension between us. Joan beats me to it when she says, “I like your spunk, kid.” She points to the loaf in my hand. “Feel free to have some as well. It’s vegan, in case you were wondering. Have a good night.” She gives us a wave and then takes off.

  I glance up at Maddox who holds the key of the apartment to me. “Go stick the loaf in the apartment. I’ll wait.” Then he crosses his arm and leans against the hall wall, eyes studying me.

  What I wouldn’t give to know what’s going on in that head of his. Is he mad? Entertained? Curious to find out more about Joan?

  Either way, I stuff the loaf in the apartment and meet up with Maddox again, but this time as we wait for the elevator, he doesn’t hold my hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  MADDOX

  I roll over in bed and glance at the time on my phone. One thirty.

  What the hell is she doing?

  My plan tonight was to dive deeper into our relationship. Take Kinsley out, hold her hand, show her that even though we had a fight, we were still very much the same people, maybe even more to each other.

  At least she is to me.

  Yeah, that fight hurt like a bitch, and she said something I will never forget. I can still hear her words in my head. The fear she portrayed. It vibrated to the very marrow of my bones, completely extinguishing my anger and instead, filling me up with my own fear . . . that I would lose her.

  I remember the way Kinsley looked at me when I slipped through her window, a fresh shiner on my face—something I blamed on baseball practice that day. She knew the truth. The concern and worry in her eyes are imprinted in my brain today, but until now, I hadn’t remembered it. Now that I have, it scares me, because I don’t ever want to see that look in her face again.

  And I saw it.

  I knew things had to change. Not only did it scare me to see her so upset, it also made me realize one thing: I love this girl more than just a friend. I think I always have but never let myself consider it until the other night, when I thought I could lose her. That I could scare her so much with my anger, with my temper, that she’d walk out the door. Leave me.

  It was a fucking reality check and it’s why I apologized, why I brought her into my bed, why I held her hand all night. I needed to make sure she wasn’t going to leave, that she’d stay with me.

  It’s why I wanted to go out with her, tonight, but that was ruined by Joan and her incessant need to force Dudley on Kinsley. I desperately wanted to ask her if she’d go on another date with him. If she was going to forgive the jackass who stood her up . . . because she was too pretty? What a load of shit. Don’t get me wrong. Kinsley is drop-dead gorgeous, but no guy who poses while holding his chin for a picture is going to say he’s too scared to go out with a girl because she’s too pretty. Chin holders are the type who try to pelvic thrust their way into a girl’s pants on the dance floor. Not walk away with his tail tucked into his balls because the girl is too pretty.

  I don’t buy that one fucking bit.

  But it seemed like Kinsley did. Who really fucking knows? I was too nervous to ask her, to hear the truth. So it threw me off for the rest of the night. I didn’t act the same, I didn’t talk about the things I wanted to talk about, and I didn’t end up accomplishing anything besides being awkward around her.

  And when we got back home and I told her to sleep in my bed, which she refused, so while I brushed my teeth, I had to listen to her tape Clyde back together once again. The fucking thing. I swear; one of these days, I’m just going to toss the damn cot in the trash without her knowing. Teach her a goddamn lesson.

  Yeah, I might be bitter that she didn’t want to share a bed again, that she’d rather sleep on a twenty-plus-year-old cot than next to me. But now that it’s one thirty and I can hear her rummaging around out there, I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

  I toss the blankets to the side and trudge out of my bedroom, my hair falling over my forehead in a mess, and my eyes barely receptive to the light in the living room.

  I find her sitting cross-legged on the couch, her notebook in front of her, Scotch tape and scissors on her left, a men’s GQ on the right, and her hand feverously scribbling in her notebook.

  “What are you doing?”

  Her head flies up as she clutches her chest. “Mother effer, you scared me.”

  “Sorry.” I scratch my stomach and I watch her eyes follow my hand and then back up my body . . . slowly. Her perusal throws me for a loop as I try to think about why I’m out here. In my boxer briefs. And nothing else.

  She beats me to it when she says, “Was I making too much noise?”

  “A little.”

  She winces, and the cute scrunch of her nose wakes me up even more. “Sorry. I thought I was being stealthy quiet, apparently not.”

  “You know it’s past one thirty in the morning, right?”

  Her eyes widen. “Is it? I thought it was only eleven.”

  I shake my head. “No, babe, you’re up late.”

  She grips her forehead. “Oh crap. I’m going to be a puddle of uselessness tomorrow.” She snaps her notebook shut and sets her things on the coffee table only to move over to her bed, but I beat her to it and snag her hand before she can lie down.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, looking at our connected hands.

  Gaining enough courage, I say, “You’re not sleeping there tonight, not when you need some good sleep. It’s probably half the reason why you’re so tired every morning. Come on.” I nod toward my bedroom but she doesn’t move. Grumbling an obscenity under my breath, I say, “Why aren’t you moving?”

  “Because, that is your bed, this is my bed. I’ve already imposed on you by living with you. I’m not about to take over your bed as well.”

  I glance over at Clyde, pull on the back of my neck, and do the one thing I wanted to do a few nights ago when I first gained the courage to do it. I lift the cot and drive my foot through it, multiple times, until every last spring is broken off. Then I toss it to the ground and turn back to her.

  Mouth agape, she stares down at Clyde.

  I don’t bother to listen to the barrage of comments about what I just did. I take her hand again and move her through the living room, down the hall, and to my bedroom where I sit her on her side of the bed.

  Still in shock, she blinks a few times at me and then says, “You murdered Clyde.”

  Unapologetically, I say, “It needed to be done. I was sick of hearing the duct tape rip from across the apartment. I was annoyed every time I saw you lying awkwardly in the morning. And I couldn’t take seeing you in pain in the morning because you insisted on sleeping on that thing when I have a perfectly fine bed you can sleep in.”

  “But—”

  I silence her with my fingers. “If I didn’t want you here, I’d tell you. But I want you here, I want you comfortable, so let me do this for you . . .” My throat grows tight. “After everything you’ve done for me.”

  “Maddox, you don’t ever have to repay me. We were there for each other.”

/>   “I know, but I feel like it’s my turn to take you in. I have the ability to do it. Let me care for you.”

  Her teeth roll over her bottom lip as she looks away. Her hand smooths over the comforter and she sighs heavily. “I did have the best night’s sleep ever when I slept here. It’s like the mattress was built to make you think you were floating on a cloud.”

  “Money can buy nice things.”

  She chuckles. “Apparently.” Looking back at me, she tilts her head to the side and says, “Do you ever wonder what would have happened had we not become friends?”

  I shake my head. “Never. Don’t even want to acknowledge it as a possibility.”

  “Not even once?”

  “Not even once,” I say with finality. I tip her chin up, loving the way her eyes sparkle when she looks at me. “Now get some sleep, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I move around to my side of the bed, get under the covers, and face her. I reach out my hand, and she smiles softly at me, taking my hand in hers.

  “How much did these pillows cost you?”

  “More than your fucking cot.”

  She laughs out loud. “I can imagine.”

  Even though I told her to get some sleep, I can’t help but ask, “What were you working on? You seemed intent on finishing it.”

  “Oh.” A stunning smile crosses her face. “Just an idea I had to spice up the adoption process for the animals. I wanted to test some pictures out in my notebook, see if it could work. There are a few animals that have been at the shelter for far too long and need a good home, so I’m going to utilize some quality pictures, our Instagram account, and some flavorful hashtags to gather some attention. Maybe tag Ellen DeGeneres. You know how she loves animals, and star power will really help us.”

  “You need star power?”

  “Every non-profit begs for star power.” She chuckles. “It makes such a huge impact on your ability to reach the people.”

  “Babe, you’re holding the hand of someone who has star power.”

  “What?” She shakes her head. “No way. Not happening. I am not asking you to help with the adoptions.”