Page 117 of The Wild Card

The honesty catches me off guard. I open my mouth to deny it, to insist I’m fine, I’m totally fine, I’m so over him it’s not even funny.

What comes out is: “I don’t know.”

Reece nods slowly. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Fair enough.” He picks up his fork again. “For what it’s worth, whoever he is, he’s an idiot.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know he let you go.” He shrugs. “That’s enough.”

We finish dinner. He’s gracious about it—doesn’t push for a second date, doesn’t make it awkward. When we say goodbye outside the restaurant, he hugs me and tells me to call him if things ever change.

“You’re a good guy, Reece.”

“I know.” He grins. “That’s what makes it so tragic.”

I laugh—a real laugh—and watch him walk away.

Then I stand on the sidewalk for a long moment, the Dallas skyline glittering in the distance, and wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

Reece was perfect. Attentive. Emotionally intelligent. He didn’t flinch when I touched his arm. He didn’t need to Google how to provide comfort. He was easy in all the ways Crew is hard.

And I spent the entire dinner wishing I was somewhere else.

My phone buzzes. Sadie.

How’d it go??? Details!!

I stare at the screen.

He was great, I type back. Really great.

AND???

And I’m not ready.

A pause. Then: Oh honey. I’m sorry.

Me too.

I get an Uber back to the apartment. Our apartment. The apartment that still smells like Crew’s soap and my cooking and something that used to feel like home but now just feels like a museum of everything I’ve lost.

He’s not there when I get back. That’s no surprise; he’s at his cabin. Somewhere he can work with his hands and not have to see me.

I should be relieved. It’s easier when he’s not here, when I don’t have to pretend I’m fine, when I don’t have to hear him moving around in his room and resist the urge to knock on his door.

Instead, I just feel empty.

Murphy greets me at the door, meowing his displeasure at being abandoned for the evening. I scoop him up and carry him to my room, burying my face in his fur.

“I went on a date,” I tell him. “With a very nice man who checks all the boxes.”

Murphy purrs.

“And all I could think about was your stupid, emotionally constipated owner.”