I just hope I can convince her to trust me yet again.

I ring the bell and wait. She answers but doesn’t immediately invite me in. Pulling out the big bouquet of flowers I’ve hidden behind my back, I offer them and a folded note as I do my best puppy-dog-eyed beg for forgiveness.

She tries to hide it, but there’s a smile tempting her lips. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, then steps aside for me to enter.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Do you mean the hangover or the wounded heart?” she asks jokingly, but I see in her face she’s not entirely kidding. Busying herself with putting the flowers in water, she avoids eye contact. I take the vase she’s filling from her hands and dump the flowers in unceremoniously, just to get her attention.

Her back is to the kitchen counter and she doesn’t move when I step to her, invading her personal space. I cup her cheeks and wait till she looks up. “I meant the hangover, but I’d like to hear about the wounded heart too,” I say quietly.

“Well, the Tylenol and water took the edge off the hangover. My stomach is still queasy, but I think I’ll live.”

My thumb caresses her cheek. “And your heart?” I lean in. My own is beating like thunder in my chest, I’m pretty sure she must be able to feel it too.

“It’s…,” she struggles for a word. “Confused.”

“Your heart’s confused or your head?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “My head, I guess.”

“So your heart isn’t confused?” Lowering my head to meet with hers, I speak directly into her eyes.

She shakes her head.

“Good. I’m glad. Mine isn’t either.”

“But I don’t understand what happened.” Her eyes perk up with hope, then turn wary again. “One minute everything was great and the next minute you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

I fucking hate that I made her feel that way. Seeing the pain in her face, hearing it in her voice, causes a physical ache inside my gut. Like I took a punch and it’s all I can do to not double over from the pain.

I swallow hard. I need to make her believe what she means to me. So I tell her the truth, even though sharing the memory will hurt both of us. “The first time I met Emily, I was nine years old and standing in the street in Batman briefs. It became her nickname for me. Emily bought me the batman mask you found in my room for my twelfth birthday.” I’m quiet for a long moment, trying to come up with the right words. I take her hand, lacing our fingers together and wait until she looks into my eyes before I begin. Then I tell her the truth, let the words flow from my heart, even though they scare me to confess them.

“I could never not stand the sight of you. Hell, Nikki, when you walk into a room, I see you in color when everything else is black and white. I’m just screwed up. I feel like it’s wrong for me to be happy. I don’t deserve it. So I try to make myself feel something different.”

Her face looks sad. “I feel like that sometimes, too. Like I shouldn’t be smiling so soon after my mom is gone. I feel guilty when I’m enjoying school. When I’m laughing with Aunt Claire. Sometimes even when I feel good around you.”

“How do you deal with it?”

She shrugs and forces a weak smile. “I focus on things that give me hope.” Behind her words, there’s so much pain. But she works at pushing past it. Something I need to start to do.

“I didn’t have hope until I met you.” I stare at her. She’s stunningly beautiful, and not just on the outside. Her full lips speak healing words. Her big blue eyes seek the sun, even on a cloudy day. She searches my face, trying to see if I’m being honest, I don’t blame her for being cautious.

“I’m afraid, Zack. You hurt me. You made me doubt myself. My own judgment.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know I hurt you. But please give me another chance. I can’t promise you I’ll never screw up again. But I can promise you that I’ll try. I’ll try every day.” I pause, gently lifting her chin to force her gaze back to mine. “I’m crazy about you. Every time I see you smile, knowing I put it there, it makes me happy. You make me happy. I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

The corners of her mouth tilt upward, she wants to accept what I’m telling her, but still looks conflicted. “Your head is telling you to throw my ass out the door, but your heart is telling you something different, isn’t it?”

A real smile lights up her face. “Yep.” It’s contagious; my own smile surfaces for the first time in weeks.

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her close. “Which one’s louder?”

She furrows her brow.

“Your head or your heart. Which one is yelling at you louder?”

She looks down, then back up, our eyes locking. “My heart.”

“Go with your heart. Let me prove to your head that your heart made the right choice.”

She bites her lip. “You’ll talk to me when you’re struggling? Not shut me out?”

“I will,” I say without hesitation.

“You’ll never shut me out without explanation again?”

“I won’t.”

Her eyes search mine a final time. “Fine.” She breathes out.

“You’ll give me another chance?” I ask, filled with hope.

“Yes. But you’re on probation.”