Page 149 of The Wild Card

Is there a story?

I think about Crew. About the cabin. About making out on an air mattress and waking up alone and having no idea where we stand.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

She studies me over the rim of her wine glass. “You seem distracted, darling. Distant. Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Emmie.”

I sigh. Rachel has known me long enough to see through my deflections. “I just… there’s someone. And I don’t know what we are. And I spent the weekend with him and it was amazing and now I’m back and I don’t know if he wants what I want and I’m trying not to catastrophize but—”

“Breathe.” She holds up a hand. “Does this someone have anything to do with the grumpy man in your dedication?”

“… Maybe.”

“And what is it you want, exactly?”

The question stops me cold. Because I know what I want. I’ve always known. I want marriage. I want kids. I want Sunday dinners and Christmas mornings and someone who chooses me every single day.

I want Crew.

But wanting something and getting it are two different things.

“I want him to be sure,” I say quietly. “I want to know this isn’t going to fall apart the second things get hard. He pushed me away once already. I can’t go through that again.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Have you told him that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Perhaps you should.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Communication, darling. It’s not just for book deals.”

The food arrives—a taco salad for her, cheese enchiladas for me—and Rachel pivots seamlessly back to business. Tour dates. Media training. Possible podcast appearances. I push rice around my plate, nodding along, making appropriate noises, but my mind is elsewhere.

What do you want?

I want to stop being afraid. I want to trust that Crew won’t run when things get scary.

“—and of course, the podcast circuit will be essential. Emmie? Emmie, are you listening?”

“Sorry.” I force a smile. “Long weekend.”

Rachel sighs, but there’s fondness in it. “Go home. Take a nap. Sort out your romantic entanglements.” She signals for the check. “And call me tomorrow. We have a lot of work to do.”

* * *

I’m halfway home when my phone buzzes. Crew’s name is on the screen. My heart stutters.

Are you free tonight?

I stare at the words, trying to decode them. Is this casual? Significant? Is he going to tell me the weekend was a mistake, that we should go back to being roommates, that he’s not ready for—

Another message pops up.

I want to take you on a proper date.

Then, a few seconds later: