Page 61 of The Love We Make

When we left, she pulled away from me, laughing at herself for being so emotional. But that was Madison, and I never wanted her to change. She would always have tears running down her face for every emotion she ever felt—anger, sadness, happiness.

“I’m ridiculous,” she laughed, waving her hand in the air as we walked the streets of New York.

“You’re perfect,” I responded, meaning it.

“Thanks for going with me. That was an unexpected, but amazing way to spend the day here.”

I took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “It was perfect.”

Everything was so damnperfect.

We walked in silence for a few more blocks, deciding against the subway and opting for the walk back to the hotel. Every once in a while, we would pass a shop that Madison wanted to visit or a gallery she wanted to see.

By the time we got back in range of the hotel, the pizza was long gone and in its place was hunger. Both of our stomachs growled as we made our way into a diner in search of food.

As we waited for someone to show us to a seat, I heard my name.

“Ethan Jones?” I looked around and noticed a young kid standing with what I assumed was his mom.

“Yeah, hey there man.”

“I told you it was him!” He shouted to his mom before turning back to me. “Oh my gosh, you were awesome last night!”

His mom rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I only said he probably left New York already.”

“Nah, we decided to stay a few days and see the sights,” I explained.

“Can I have your autograph?” The boy asked, handing me a napkin from the table he was standing next to.

“Of course!” I let Madison’s hand go after I gave it a quick squeeze. I looked to her face where she had a huge smile plastered from ear to ear.

“Here,” she interrupted. “I have some pictures in my bag, sign one of those for him.” She started digging in her oversized bag she carried everywhere before bringing out three 4x6 prints of my dumb face. I groaned as she giggled.

“How do you still have those?” I asked.

“Honestly? I just never clean my bag out. They’ve been in there since your mom insisted I get you to sign them for her Women’s Club and you never did.”

The boy and his mom looked amused at our exchange—and my visible discomfort. A few months ago, when Madison had gone home for a week to visit her parents while I was in spring training, my mom had sent those pictures back with her. She wanted me to sign them and mail them back but I had my agent send her better ones because those pictures were, honestly, a face only a mother could love.

I was in motion, getting ready to pitch a fastball. At least I assumed it was a fastball, surely I didn’t visibly deform for a change-up? Mom thought the picture was everything. I thought it was embarrassing.

“Oh cool!” The boy shouted as he took in the picture. “I am a pitcher, too. My mom once took a picture of me and posted it on Facebook and I almost died from the crazy face I was making.”

“Moms are awful,” I joked, winking at his mom. She smiled and winked back. A purely platonic wink.

“Ok, ok. Since you and I share ‘ugly pitch face’ problems, I will sign this one for you. If you have a bad day, you can look at it and remember that at least you aren’tthatguy.” I pointed to the picture and he laughed.

I loved meeting kids. Especially ones who played ball.

“How old are you?”

“12. I go to high school next year and I want to make the JV team, even though I will be the youngest one.”

“Well good luck. If you work hard, you will definitely have a chance. Don’t forget to work on more pitches than just fastballs. Too many fastballs will wear your arm out quicker.”

“Yeah, I will! I want to learn a curveball, a slider, and a change-up.”

“That’s what I am talking about!” I fist-pumped the air, showing him I was as excited as he was for his future. “What’s your name?”