Page 100 of The Wild Card

I more than like her.

And that’s a disaster waiting to happen, because Emmie Marshall wants things I can’t give her.

She wants marriage. She wants babies. She wants Sunday dinners with her loud, loving family and Christmas mornings with chubby toddlers making messes and a partner who knows how to be soft and warm and present. She wants the kind of life I’ve only ever seen from the outside, nose pressed against the glass, knowing it wasn’t meant for me.

I can’t be that person.

I’m broken in ways that therapy has helped but hasn’t fixed, held together by routines and medication and the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around everything soft inside me.

Emmie deserves someone whole. Someone who doesn’t have to Google “how to provide emotional support.” Someone who could give her everything she wants without having to fight his own brain every step of the way.

She deserves someone who isn’t me.

“Hey.”

I turn. Foster’s leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Bullshit.” He moves closer, lowering his voice. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing.”

“Crew.”

I set down the beer. My hands are shaking slightly. I shove them in my pockets. “I’m in trouble,” I admit.

“What kind of trouble?”

“The Emmie kind.”

Foster’s expression shifts. “You caught feelings.”

“I didn’t—” I stop. Exhale. “Yeah. I think I did.”

“And that’s bad because…?”

“Because it’s fake, Foster. The whole thing is fake. She’s only with me because I tricked her into signing a contract, and when the transfer situation is resolved, she’s going to walk away, and I’m going to be—”

Alone. Back to the empty apartment and the too-quiet evenings and the routine that used to feel like safety but now just feels like a cage.

“Have you considered,” Foster says slowly, “telling her how you feel?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she wants things I can’t give her.” The words taste bitter. “She wants a family. Kids. The whole domestic fantasy. And I’m—” I gesture at myself. “Look at me. I’m not built for that. I’m not built for any of it.”

“Says who?”

“Says reality. Says the fact that I’ve never had a relationship. Ever.”

“Crew.” Foster grabs my shoulder, and I force myself not to flinch. “You’re not the same guy you were a year ago. You’re not even the same guy you were two months ago. She’s changed you.”

“She hasn’t—”