Page 22 of The Wild Card

“Quiet is good! Quiet means you can write. How’s the book coming?”

I look at my blank screen. “Great. Really flowing.”

“That’s wonderful, honey. Your father and I are so proud of you. Three cookbooks! Our little girl, a published author.”

The guilt settles in my chest. I hate lying to her, but I also can’t handle the worried phone calls that would come if I admitted I’ve written approximately three usable paragraphs in the past two weeks.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Now, about Sunday dinner. You’re coming, right? And bringing your roommate? We’d really like to meet him. Gavin told us he’s FBI, which is very impressive, but I’d like to see for myself that he’s not some kind of—”

“Mom, I’m not bringing my roommate to family dinner. That would be weird.”

“Why is that weird? We feed people. It’s what we do. Is he not eating enough? Gavin said it looks like he only eats protein powder.”

“He—” I pause. “How does Gavin know what he eats?”

“He snooped in the fridge while you were unpacking. He said it looked like a sad laboratory.”

Of course he did.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, my standard response when I have no intention of doing something but don’t want to argue. “I should get back to writing.”

“Okay, honey. Love you. Call me if you need anything. Or even if you don’t. Just call me. I like hearing your voice.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

I hang up and stare at my laptop again.

Comfort Foods for the Soul.

What even is comfort food? Food that makes you feel safe, I guess. Warm. Like someone cares about you. Like you’re home.

I think about last night—the way Crew’s face changed when he tasted the pasta. That tiny crack in his armor, like he’d forgotten food could be enjoyable.

Maybe that’s the angle: cooking for people who’ve forgotten how to enjoy things.

I start typing.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my agent, Rachel.

“Hey, Rach.”

“Emmie! Quick check-in. How’s the manuscript coming?”

“Great,” I lie for the second time in five minutes. “Really taking shape.”

“Wonderful. Because I just got off a call with your editor, and she’s very excited about this one. She thinks it could be your breakout book. Bigger print run, more marketing push, maybe even a tour.”

My stomach drops. “A tour?”

“Nothing confirmed yet. But she’s optimistic, which means we need this draft to be stellar. No pressure.”

“No pressure,” I echo weakly.

“You’ve got this, Emmie. I believe in you. Talk soon!”

She hangs up before I can spiral out loud.