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.