Smiling back at him, I say, “Thank you for making me feel better. I appreciate it.”
“Anything for you, Kinny.”
“Did you draw?”
He shakes his head. “Was going to, but I wanted to give you all of my attention.”
And that right there pulls on my heart. It’s as if there’s a string attached to it and he’s holding the other end, tugging and pulling every so often.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“You’re welcome.” He yawns. “Okay, I’m headed to bed. I love you, Kinny. Talk tomorrow.”
“I love you,” I say, and hang up. I roll to my back, stare at the ceiling, feeling this anvil-like pressure slowly falling on my chest.
I love you. So simple for us, but recently so weighted.
* * *
It took me longer than it should have, but I finally have the TV on, a bowl of popcorn on my lap, and a sparkling water next to me as I stare at the giant screen in Maddox’s apartment.
“Maddox Paige looks to be on fire tonight. I was watching him during warmups and he was clocking in some of his best speeds all season. And it shows in the first three innings tonight. Lights out, untouchable.”
I smile, listening to the announcers talk about my best friend and how amazing he is.
I already knew this though.
I knew it back in middle school, when I saw his arm start to develop, as he mowed down the kids attempting to get a hit off him.
When he started pitching, he wasn’t great. But then he started practicing with a pitchback. I sat off to the side, trying to distract him, and every time he looked at me, I threw something at him, reminding him to focus on what he was doing. We spent hours in his backyard, him pitching, me trying to distract him. And the days I stood in as the batter, setting up the tee with a ball on top that he had to try to knock off—ball-to-ball contact—I wiggled around, said stupid things, did anything to distract him. At first, it worked. But then his focus narrowed and no matter what I did, it didn’t matter—he hit his location every time.
I knew he was going to be great, so it wasn’t a surprise when the Rebels drafted him. It was as if the movie of his life, something I’d been watching for years, was finally full circle. And I’d had the front-row seat to watch it unfold.
That attention hasn’t wavered.
I also understand why the Rebels fans love him so much. Everything about Maddox screams rebel from the dark scruff that lines his square jaw to the intensity in his eyes, to the way he wears his jersey, the top button undone, flashing his tight undershirt with his every movement.
He’s commanding, an alpha out on the mound, intimidating with his staredown and the unleashed force of his body as he pitches the ball forward. There’s no question: he’s one of the best.
“Strike three,” the announcer says, ending the inning.
I watch intently as Maddox ducks his head and slowly walks off the field, glove tucked against his thigh.
I shovel some popcorn in my mouth, trying to avoid the drool that wants to escape from the impressive power in his quads. Yowzer, look at those things.
Wow . . . just . . . wow.
The camera follows him into the dugout where he hops up on one of the benches and rests his arms on his legs, head bent forward. Tight shoulders, rippling forearms, thick thighs . . . Maddox is looking all man right now, a far cry from the noodle-like boy I grew up with.
Jason Orson walks up to him and they start talking. Jason must say something funny because Maddox cracks a smirk in his direction. A tiny lift of the corner of his mouth, a glint in his eye under the dark brim of his hat . . . oh hell.
I gnaw on my bottom lip as nerves twist and turn in my stomach. What is happening to me?
I spend a few nights with my best friend, a few consecutive conversations, and suddenly, I’m looking at him like a . . . like a . . . piece of tofu, freshly grilled with asparagus? I don’t look at Maddox like this. I don’t have thoughts about his lips and what they might feel like. I don’t consider running my finger along his jaw and down to his chest. And I certainly don’t think about the tattoos that weave over his body, meaning to each and every one of them.
But something’s happened to me. Something has tricked my brain into switching to lust mode and that crap needs to stop, especially before he gets back.
God, how embarrassing would it be if I was in lust mode when he was here? That can’t happen. What he would think of me. He’d send me on my way, that’s for sure, or at least offer to pay for a hotel or apartment for me, which would be more insulting than anything. I know how careful Maddox is with his money. He has it, but he doesn’t spend it lavishly, not when he grew up in meager settings, knowing exactly what a turn of events can do to a bank account.
I need to turn off the sexual part of my head . . . that or meet Stan for a little knocking of the boots.
Ehh . . . he wasn’t that great. And now that I’ve imagined my best friend sexually—he’s fucking hot, I can admit that—there’s no way I’d even consider tolerating a subpar hookup with Stan. I could find someone else. This is Chicago. Lots of hot men around. Maybe Phinny has a friend. I’ve never met the guy, but he must have some single friends. I’ll text Joan. She’s the type to butt into your business and try to be a matchmaker.
I pick up my phone right after shoving another handful of popcorn in my mouth and type up a text.
Kinsley: Hey Joan. Silly question, but does Phinny have any single friends who might be down for taking out a girl like me?
She starts texting back immediately, but I set the phone down, knowing how long it takes the woman to type. Honestly, I can’t be mad about it, the fact that she even texts is a miracle. I’ve also seen her phone and she has it set to ultra-magnified, so big that I think each word is on its own line.
As I’m waiting, my phone rings. For a second, I think it’s Joan, until I see my mom’s name flash across the screen. Ugh.
I consider not answering and then realize she’s just going to keep calling, so I might as well get it over with right now.
“Hey Mom,” I answer, trying not to sound annoyed. Be open—she might be calling to find out how your first week of work went, not complain about how you’re not home with her.
“Kinsley, my girl. I miss you.”
“Miss you too, Mom.”
“Are you sick of Chicago yet? You know, Mrs. Patterson just made a fresh batch of pies for sale and I thought about you. I bought a vegan blueberry pie hoping I could entice you back here.”
“With a pie?” I laugh. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Mom.”
“But it’s your favorite.”
“You wouldn’t mind mailing it then, right?”
“Mail a pie? You really think I’m going to trust the postal system to keep it intact? No way. I’ll just have to drive it down and visit you.”
Panic immediately washes over me.
“Uh, no, that’s okay. I’m trying to stay away from sugar right now,” I say even though a half pint of oat milk ice cream is in the freezer. I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do if my mom showed up here. She’d probably have a freaking heart attack knowing I didn’t even have my own bedroom. I couldn’t care less, but she wants only the best for her little girl. She’d also be insulted. How could I leave a loving home, where I had my own bedroom, to sleep on a dilapidated cot in an unfamiliar city? Inconceivable.
She’ll never understand. She grew up in Woodland with my dad. She’s never left the area, never even thought about it. She’s comfortable where she is and that’s totally okay. I admire her loyalty and love for my hometown, but I wanted to venture out, make an impact on a grander scale.
My mom doesn’t get that.
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to avoid me?”
Because I am.
“Not avoiding you, Mom. But I’m still getting my feet wet. Give me a few weeks and then we can plan a fun trip.” One where we stay in a hotel together rather than visit Maddox’s a
partment.
“Oh, that sounds like it could be fun. Maybe I could venture down when it’s less humid. More toward the fall. I hear humidity in the cities is positively suffocating, and it just makes the urine smell that much worse.”
“It’s not bad actually. Pretty clean here.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t know about that.”
How can she say that? She’s never even been here. Her comments drive me freaking crazy. You can’t have an opinion on a place you’ve never been, simple as that.
Holding back my anger, I say, “Hey, I have a few errands I have to run, but I can call you a little later in the week. Does that work okay?”
“Oh yes, I guess so. I just miss you, honey.”
“I know, Mom. I miss you too, but I promise I’m doing great. I love my new job, I’m making friends, and I’m eating.”
“And getting plenty of sleep?”
I glance at Clyde, who now is just a mattress on the floor because I’m giving the springs a break. The travel down from Woodland to Chicago wasn’t an easy journey on the old guy.
“Plenty,” I answer, even though my back is sore these days.
“Okay,” she sighs. I do feel a little bad for my mom. I’m her girl, her confidante, her friend, and I left. There is going to be an adjustment period and I need to remember that.
“I love you,” I say, which of course makes her tear up. She eventually hangs up, and that’s when I see the text from Joan.
Joan: I have the perfect fella in mind. I’ll give him your number and you guys can go out on a date. He’s a looker and more than a gentle lover . . . if you know what I mean.
Oh Joan, I know exactly what you mean, and that’s exactly what I’m looking for.
Chapter Ten
MADDOX
“You’re back early,” Kinsley says, looking surprised and like she was just caught red-handed.
And she was, because . . . what the actual fuck did she do to my apartment?
I shut the door behind me and toss my keys on the console.
“Kinsley—”
“I know, I know. I’m cleaning it right now. I didn’t know you were going to be back this early. I thought I had more time. Don’t worry, it’s not—oops, just stepped on a cracker. Where’s your vacuum?”
I don’t answer right away but instead, I take in the living space of my apartment. Clothes are strewn about, draped over the couch, on the coffee table, hanging off the entertainment center. The ironing board is out with no iron in sight, there are mugs everywhere—I didn’t even know I had that many—and there’s a pile of trash stacked on my balcony. What the hell happened here in six days that turned my apartment into a warzone?
I walk over to the entryway closet and pull out my vacuum, feeling like I’m in a haze as Kinsley moves around me cleaning up.
“I honestly thought I had more time, but then Dudley said he wanted to meet tonight so I was like, okay, that sounds like fun, but then I realized I had an hour and a half to get my butt into gear, which meant make a good first impression or clean. I went for make a good first impression, which in return made me try on every outfit I have. I settled on this, what do you think?”
I take in her black jeans and red off-the-shoulder crop top for the first time, noticing how her stomach has small divots on the side, indicating she works out. I was so distracted by the mess that I didn’t even notice her hair is pieced in waves, she has mascara on, and she’s wearing bright red lipstick. She looks really fucking hot.
And . . . who the fuck is Dudley and why is she trying to make a good first impression?
Before I can answer her, she says, “And I’m wearing a strapless bra, just in case you’re wondering, and hating every second of it. My boobs already hate me. But that’s society for you, always repressing the tits of the world.”
She huffs and gathers four mugs in her hands, taking them to the kitchen where she quickly puts them in the dishwasher. “I wasn’t drinking a lot of coffee, if that’s what you’re wondering. I just get lazy and use mugs for everything. They’re the perfect companion for eating. They have a handle, you can stick things in them and scoop them out, and I don’t understand why we don’t spend our lives using mugs for everything.”
I know this about her, so why is she telling me? Is she nervous?
“You’re probably wondering, why is Clyde’s mattress on the floor? I’m just airing him out a bit, giving him a second to breathe. I know I’d want that if someone was sleeping on me every night. Oh, and just so you know, I took the liberty of donating your cleaning products and everything I’ve replaced to Finding Homes. We’re always looking for supplies . . . even if it kills the planet. We take just about anything. Which means we’re one step closer to reducing your carbon footprint. How exciting, right? Oh, and all the boxes and whatnot on the balcony are from the shelter. They don’t have recycling there, so I brought it home so we could recycle it ourselves. And then I was walking to the park down the street the other day, and you can’t imagine the amount of people who throw out things that should be recycled, so I picked the trashcans. Don’t worry, I took a shower.”
She moves around the apartment, babbling, picking up clothes and tossing them on Clyde. Then she moves to me, takes the vacuum, and does a quick sweep of the rug before turning it on the hardwood setting and running it around the living space, all the while, I stand in the entryway, watching her, wondering . . . who the hell is Dudley?
Once she’s done, she puts the vacuum away, checks herself in the entryway mirror, and then comes up to me to give me a big hug. When she pulls away, she shoulders a small purse and says, “I have to head out. I’m so sad we couldn’t talk about your trip, but when I get back, okay?” She pats my arm and starts to move past me when I stop her with my hand to her stomach. I don’t mean to touch her bare skin, but it’s the only thing I can reach before she walks out the door. Shoulders side by side, she looks up at me in surprise and then swats my hand away. “Your hand is clammy.”
I don’t laugh.
I don’t even smile.
“Who is Dudley?”
“Oh, I thought I told you. He’s my date for tonight.”
Date?
My entire body boils with anger and annoyance, and I know it’s an irrational reaction. I certainly have no claim over anything Kinsley does, nor anyone she sees, but it still irritates me because . . . well, because . . .
Why does it irritate me?
She’s my friend. She can date whoever she wants.
And yet, I want to grab a hold of her wrist and force back to the couch where I hold her captive, maybe force her to pose for me while I draw that perfect slope of her nose, or engage in more conversation just to see how the crinkle in the corner of her eyes forms when she laughs.
I want to decompress with her after a long road trip. I want to feel her body pressed up against mine while we watch a movie or share one of her weird vegan desserts that she claims will change my life but only makes me wonder if she was born without taste buds.
“Date?” I finally question her.
“Yeah. Joan set us up. He’s a friend of Phinny and he’s quite the looker. I call him Studley in my head. Look.” She pulls her phone out of her purse and shows me a picture of a guy in a finely tailored suit, looking at the camera while holding on to his chin.
“Looks like a douche.”
Kinsley swats at my chest. “He’s not a douche. He’s a really nice guy. We’ve been texting.”
“He’s posing like a douche. Therefore, he’s a douche.”
She looks at the picture and then back up at me. “You pose all the time for those magazine photo shoots.”
“Because they force me to and they never look douchey.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She stuffs her phone back in her purse. “He’s very nice and I can’t wait to meet him. He’s even a vegetarian, which is pretty darn close to vegan. If I play my cards right, I could convert him. Anyway, I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.” She stan
ds on her toes and presses a light kiss to my cheek before taking off, leaving me alone in my apartment for the first time since she’s moved in.
I don’t fucking like it.
* * *
After cleaning with products I’d never seen before for half an hour, I finally gave in and sent a text to Linc, asking if he wanted to grab a drink. I needed to get out of the apartment, desperate to, because everywhere I looked, I ran into a little piece of Kinsley. Whether it was a thong she misplaced, her many mugs still strewn about, or a picture of an animal she must have brought home, I couldn’t stand to be in the apartment alone anymore, especially knowing Kinsley was out with some other dude.
“You look like you want to murder someone,” Linc says, taking a seat next to me at Paddy’s, the bar we frequent because no one bothers us.
I lift my beer to my lips and take a long pull before setting it down. “What kind of name is Dudley?”
Linc motions to the bartender, who knows our orders by heart, and situates himself. “Dudley? I don’t know, but it isn’t great, unless you call him Studley Dudley, then it’s a pretty badass name.” An IPA is placed in front of Linc and he takes a sip before saying, “You know, the more I say the name in my head, the more it grows on me. Dudley. Dudley. Dudley.”
“Okay, you don’t have to keep repeating it,” I say, a palm to my eye, where I rub, trying to ease the sharp pain that’s piercing it.
“What do you have against Dudley? Was he an old bully from high school who got under your skin?”
“No one bullied me in school.”
“Really?” Linc asked looking a little shocked. “I’ve seen pictures of you from high school. You were a skinny shit. Still wondering what scouts were thinking recruiting you.”
“Seemed to work out for them, don’t you think?” I ask, raising my beer to my mouth again.
“You defied all odds.” He chuckles. “If he’s not a bully, who’s Dudley?”
I have two options here: I can either let the Dudley thing stew inside me all night until I lash out at Kinsley for no reason, which I’m sure is very much in my future if I don’t talk about what’s going on in my head, or I can speak the truth and listen to Linc rag on me about Kinsley.
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