The Change Up

by Quinn, Meghan

  Maddox: I want to. Please . . . don’t take this away from me, Kinsley.

  Oh God. I gasp and quickly type him back.

  Kinsley: I’m not taking it away from you. I just don’t want you to feel obligated, that’s all.

  Maddox: Volunteering gives me the opportunity to see Herman . . . and you. I promise I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable or force you into anything you don’t want. I just . . . fuck, I just need to be close.

  I press my hand to my mouth as tears fall, reading his text a few times, the blurriness in my eyes making it hard. Harsh realization hits me out of nowhere. I need him to be close too, but I’m also scared. Scared of what would happen if I let him get too close. Would I be able to withstand having him in my life again? Part of me feels like I’m not truly living without him by my side. The other part worries about the damage he could do, if I did let him back in again and he hurt me.

  There would be no coming back from that.

  But despite that, the reason I’m crying, the reason I’m overly emotional, is because all I can picture is that boy with the floppy hair, the crooked smile, and the sharp blue eyes, thanking me once again for letting him stay at my house another night. I can feel the warmth of his hug, the feel of his lips pressed against the top of my head. It’s the driving force behind my fingers as I text him back.

  Kinsley: You can keep volunteering, Maddox.

  Maddox: Thank you, Kinsley.

  I sink down into the couch, put my phone to the side, and curl into Herman. I spoon him from behind and hold him for the rest of the night, until I fall asleep and wake up the next morning, a kink in my neck, and bloodshot eyes.

  * * *

  Two Days Later

  Knock. Knock.

  I look up from my computer and see Marcy standing in the doorway, holding a package. “A carrier just brought this to the office. It’s for . . . Herman.”

  “Herman?” I ask, a pinch to my brow. And then I realize. I don’t have to think about who it’s from to know the sender.

  Marcy sets the package on my desk and winks.

  She is so favoring Maddox. I don’t care what she says.

  Once she’s gone, I take a pair of scissors and open the package, only to bring it to the floor for Herman to look at. He barely lifts his head when I show him the package, and then just lies back down again.

  “Your excitement is overwhelming,” I say as I pull back the sides of the carboard box, revealing a letter on top. Familiar handwriting. Yup, it’s from Maddox. I pick up the letter and read it out loud.

  “Hey old man,

  I realized out of all those intimate conversations we had on our walks, I said I’d get you some Rebels gear and then never did. I was a little preoccupied with your mom. But I’m making it up to you now. I have a game tonight. Think you can ask your mom to help you put on this gear and send me a pic? I’d be grateful. Hashtag Rebel at heart.

  Love, Daddy (because apparently, that’s what you call me).

  P.S. Kinsley, thanks for helping the old man out with his gear. There’s also a little something in the box for you.” I stare down at the note and then back at Herman. “He’s hitting me precisely in the feels, and he knows it.”

  I set the letter on the desk and move the tissue paper out of the way to reveal a T-shirt jersey with Maddox’s last name and number on the back. When I pull it out, I realize it’s made for a dog, and I nearly pass out from how adorable it is. Underneath it is a Rebels dog collar and bandana.

  “Oh, you’re going to be so handsome.” When I reach the bottom, I spot a drawing. It’s of me and Herman. I’m holding up his ear and laughing while Herman’s droopy face stares straight ahead. Scribbled in his signature art stamp is Maddox’s name.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, bringing it closer and taking in the strokes on the paper, running my fingers over the ink, knowing each scratch of his pen had purpose.

  I reach for my phone and text him quickly before I lose the nerve.

  Kinsley: Got the package. Thank you. The picture . . . well, it means a lot to me, so thank you.

  He types back immediately, most likely just hanging out in the locker room, getting ready for the game.

  Maddox: You’re welcome. Just started drawing again, had a bit of a drought there for a while. It was the first thing I drew since . . . well, in a while. How does our man look?

  Our man.

  It all feels so . . . normal, talking to Maddox like this, referring to Herman as ours. It’s confusing, but . . . addicting.

  Kinsley: I haven’t put everything on him yet, but when I do, I’ll send you a pic.

  Maddox: Thank you. Think you’ll turn the game on for him?

  Kinsley: I can.

  Maddox: Cool. Thanks, Kinny.

  Kinsley: Of course.

  I set my phone down and go back to work, my heart beating faster than before as I finish out my day. When we get home, I put Herman in his new gear and I nearly die laughing. He’s decked out in Rebels gear but still has the same bored look on his face, as if he couldn’t care less. I take a picture of him and then send it to Maddox.

  Kinsley: #Thrilled

  The game doesn’t start for an hour, which means Maddox is probably fueling up with some food right now.

  Maddox: Oh fuck, you’re going to have to split time with this guy as screensaver and wallpaper on my phone. That’s the best pic ever.

  I’m still his wallpaper on his phone? Joy erupts inside me. Maybe I wasn’t a throwaway for him. Maybe he’s truly sorry for what happened and regretful. Maybe he’s believing in himself and accepting that his past doesn’t have to dictate his future.

  Maybe, just maybe he did love me as much as I loved him . . . love him.

  Kinsley: I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever seen.

  Maddox: Second-best thing in my mind. I think you know the first.

  Oh God, he’s flirting, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive it.

  Divert, divert.

  Kinsley: Are you ready for the game tonight? Not quite sure where you are in the playoff race.

  Maddox: Ready. We just need four more wins to clinch our division. Hoping one of those games is tonight. I’m feeling the spin off the seams pretty well.

  Kinsley: That’s good. Well . . . good luck.

  Maddox: Thanks, Kinny. Have a good night and thanks for letting Herman watch the game.

  Kinsley: Of course.

  * * *

  Letting Herman watch the game. Yeah right.

  I’m still reeling over last night’s game and the three to zero win for the Rebels. Maddox dominated on the mound, throwing a shutout for nine innings. He was untouchable. The announcers could not stop talking about his spin, the velocity, his intensity, and focus. He was interviewed earlier in the day where he addressed his recent fights, and they showed it during the game. He was open and unwavering in his interview, letting the fans know that he was in a dark place that he wasn’t proud of. He let his past demons control his present actions, and it was a version of himself he was disgusted with. He admitted to getting in fights with teammates, to abusing alcohol to help him cope, and it took him a few weeks to realize that he was not only hurting himself, but his teammates, fans, and loved ones.

  The confession was heartbreaking and while I watched it, I felt my broken heart start to piece itself back together every time he looked at the camera. It almost felt like he was talking directly to me.

  He thanked Cory, Lincoln, and Jason on camera for helping him get straight and for keeping an eye on him. He said he was focused on getting his life straight, even if it’s not the same as before. If it’s a semblance of what he had, he’d be happy.

  The announcers cut back to the game and spoke highly of Maddox, of his work ethic, and loyalty to the team.

  Before I knew it, I was glued to the TV, watching every pitch, memorizing his every movement, and by the fourth inning, I finally saw it.

  It took me a bit, but when I saw it, I broke d
own into a pile of emotion, on the floor of the apartment.

  On his glove, over the thumb, was the quarter-sized baseball patch I gave him back in middle school. He sewed it onto his glove and when he pitched, he rubbed his hand over it before every batter. I hadn’t seen it since the minors, and I wasn’t sure if he was allowed to have a patch in the majors, but there it was, clear as day. And before every batter he faced, he rubbed it.

  Back in middle school, after the first game with the patch, he threw a no-hitter. He said it was me who gave him good luck. So he made it a point to make sure I was with him through every batter.

  That signal, that momentary touch of the patch, it meant . . . everything. It means he hasn’t thrown me away.

  It’s why I drop my things off at my desk and go straight to Marcy’s office without even turning on my computer.

  She spots me and says, “Good morning. Did you catch the game—”

  “I need the email, Marcy. I need to see it.”

  “What email?”

  “You know what email.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not kidding, I need to see it.”

  “And why exactly do you need to see it?”

  “Because even though Maddox Paige broke my heart, I’m still desperately in love with him and I need to know what he said to you, so I can prepare my heart for when he returns to Chicago.”

  The grin that tilts up the corners of Marcy’s mouth is borderline annoying. Without saying a word, she pushes from her desk, opens one of her drawers, and pulls out a printed piece of paper.

  She doesn’t hold it out. “Are you sure you want to read this?”

  I bite my bottom lip and nod. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Just so you know, if you need the day off after reading this, I completely understand.”

  I snatch the paper from her and say, “Well, that’s not reassuring.”

  “It’s one of the most beautifully broken things I’ve ever read. Good luck.” She turns to her computer, and I return to my office where I shut the door, sit in my chair, and turn my back to the world.

  On a deep breath, I hold out the paper and start reading.

  Hello Marcy,

  Sorry to approach you like this, but figured it might be the only way I could get in contact with you without getting slaughtered.

  As you probably already know, I fucked up—excuse my language—but if there’s ever a time to use harsh language, it’s now. I fucked up and I fucked up badly. I made a horrible assumption about Kinsley, one I should never have assumed about her, because she’s been nothing but the guiding light in my life. I might not have known it from the first day I met her, but over the years I came to realize, Kinsley was put into my life as a guardian angel, the person who was meant to hold my hand during the tough times and be my cheerleader during the joyful times. She’s my person, the only constant in my fucked-up and broken life.

  And I threw it away like a goddamn moron. You don’t need to know the details. All you need to know is that I’m a battered, regretful man looking for a handout.

  No, not looking. Begging.

  I’m probably not your favorite person at this point and there truly is no reason why you would help me out, but I’m desperate to see her, to hear her voice, to be a part of even the smallest minute of her life. I want to show her that I am the kind, loyal man she knows I can be. I want to prove to her that the man she saw that night, the one who told her to leave, the man who vehemently broke her heart, was a fleeting memory that will die that day and never appear again. I would do anything, and I mean anything, to make sure she knows how much I love her, respect her, and adore her.

  You probably know this already, but you lucked out when it came to hiring Kinsley. Hard-working, with a heart of gold, she will do just about anything to save an animal. She’s thoughtful and intelligent. She’s funny, and she can brighten anyone’s day with one small smirk. She’s light on a rainy day, and she’s joy in a dark moment. She’s my person.

  My everything.

  And even though I majorly fucked up, I’m still desperate. Despite trying to give her space, it’s impossible. I need to see my girl, be near her, make sure she’s going to be okay. I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for right now.

  So, I’m here, begging you, despite what you might feel about me, would you grant me permission to volunteer at the shelter?

  Let me just show her through a small act of helping with the thing she loves so dearly, that I’m not the monster I left her thinking that I am.

  I would be eternally grateful.

  Thank you for your time, Marcy.

  Sincerely,

  Maddox

  I suck back a deep breath and rest my head against my chair, looking at the ceiling.

  Fuck . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  MADDOX

  I stare at the hotel wall, my sketchpad on my lap, a pen in my hand, and a completed picture of Kinsley on the bright white paper.

  One more day, and then I’ll be home.

  Hell, how I wish I could go straight into her arms, how I could beg her for her forgiveness, kiss her lips, fucking hold her and never let go.

  But that’s not my reality.

  I have moments with her. Small text conversations that lack any sort of substance and feel more like a polite conversation with a co-worker rather than an intimate conversation with my girl.

  The boys warned me it would take time, that after what I did, what I said, I can’t simply snap a finger and make it go away. I have to make small gestures that build over time, gestures that break down the protective wall she’s most likely put up where I’m concerned.

  And I’ve seen progress, at least that’s what I hope it is. It’s nothing like it used to be, and when I compliment her or try to flirt, she quickly diverts the conversation to something else. It’s painful. So fucking painful that—

  Bling.

  My phone lights up on the nightstand and I reach for it faster than I care to admit. It’s past ten in Chicago, so when I see her name on the screen, I can’t help but worry if everything’s okay.

  Kinsley: Hey.

  Just that one word puts butterflies in my stomach. I try to calm the pulsing nerves as I type her back.

  Maddox: Hey Kinny.

  Kinsley: I read your email to Marcy.

  Oh fuck.

  Oh . . . fuck.

  I push my pen and paper to the side, and stare down at my phone, unsure how to answer. She read the whole thing?

  Of course she read the whole thing? There’s no way she stopped.

  Shit. Is she pissed or happy? I study her two texts. There’s no indication of either way, and now I feel like a sitting duck, waiting to see if I’m going to lose everything that I’ve worked for.

  I blow out a heavy breath and text her back.

  Maddox: Marcy shared that with you?

  Kinsley: She didn’t at first. But I saw the patch on your glove . . .

  Maddox: Yeah. I, uh, I’ve always had it on the inside, but it felt wrong. I needed it to be more obvious, to remind me why I was doing what I was doing. Fulfilling a lifelong dream, something I worked tirelessly for. Throwing it away with fights was being counterproductive to everything I’d ever worked toward.

  I bite my bottom lip, hoping for the best.

  Maddox: And I needed you there with me.

  I hold my breath, waiting as the dots appear on the screen. I pray her reaction isn’t going to brush me off, that maybe, just maybe, she’ll allow me back into her life, even if it’s small increments for now.

  Kinsley: It was hard, seeing it on your glove.

  Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Maddox: Um, I can remove it, if it’s too hard for you.

  Kinsley: No, I just thought I’d tell you that I noticed it . . . and that I read your email.

  Maddox: Yeah, I’m sorry about emailing her. I didn’t mean to go behind your back. I guess I was just desperate.

  Kinsley: The things you said . .
. they cut deep.

  If I had a paper bag, I’d be breathing into it right now. I feel my entire happiness riding on a fine line. I’ve been able to maintain a sober lifestyle as I’ve attempted to slowly win this girl back, but I swear, one step back from her could send me into another tailspin. I’m not mentally recovered, not sure if I ever will be, and these last couple weeks have been a testament to my mental strength. Not sure how much is left inside of me.

  Maddox: Listen, I’m sorry, Kinsley. I didn’t mean for you to see that email. It was stupid of me.

  I press send and then grip my forehead, pushing my hand back and forth, my body thrumming with so much anxiety that I feel like I might puke.

  She finally texts back and when I read it, I feel a bout of emotional respite fill me up so fast that I can’t do anything but wheeze out a sigh of relief.

  Kinsley: It was beautiful.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  So, what is this? Is she reaching out? Is she possibly giving me a second chance?

  Before I can ask any questions, she types out another response.

  Kinsley: I’m tired, I need to go to bed, but thought I’d let you know. Have a safe flight home tomorrow. Good night, Maddox.

  Maddox: Good night, Kinny.

  “I love you. So fucking much,” I mumble.

  I set the phone down and grab the sketchbook and pen. I flip over the page, and I allow my thoughts to fade away, as I draw a very familiar slope of a nose, the tiniest smattering of hope taking hold in my stomach.

  * * *

  “So is this one of those moments where we do a choreographed dance and then hold out a sign that says I love you, Kinsley?” Jason asks as we walk toward the front doors of the shelter.

  I pause on the street and look him up and down. “Did we practice a dance?”

  “No,” he answers. “But I’m a fast learner. Show me the steps.”

  “There is no dance, you moron,” I shout, taking out my anxiety on Jason. “Shit, sorry. I don’t mean to yell. I’m nervous.”