Logan places a red draw four card down in the pile between us.
“Draw four, sucker,” he says with a wide grin.
I sigh and look down at my hand, fanning the cards out. My eyes light up when I see a blue draw four tucked near the back, and I slap it on top of his with perhaps a little too much satisfaction.
“I don’t think so,” I say smugly, tilting my head to the side.
He shakes his head and chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Sorry. It doesn’t work like that.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t work like that?” I ask, my smugness evaporating.
“When someone lays a draw four, you have to draw four cards and your turn is skipped. Those are the rules.”
“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” I say, because it truly doesn’t, “since you just laid a yellow zero, and I laid a red zero and changed the color to red. So clearly I can play cards on top of other cards.”
“Well, yeah,” he says easily, gesturing with his remaining cards, “you can lay the same card in a different color to change colors. But with a draw four, you have to draw four and it skips your turn, so now it’s my turn again.”
“But that still doesn’t make sense,” I argue, crossing my arms.
He grins, wider this time. “It’s Uno rules, baby.”
I pause.
Just for a moment.
The way he saysbaby—casual, teasing, warm—sends a shiver straight through my chest, and I hate how much I like it. How much I want him to say it again.
I force myself to focus on the cards in my hand instead of the way my heart just skipped.
“Fine,” I sigh, reaching for the draw pile with exaggerated reluctance. “But I’m looking that rule up later because I don’t think that’s right.”
He lifts a shoulder, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “Look it up. I’m telling you, those are the rules.”
I draw four cards—of course none of them are useful—and watch as he takes his turn again, laying down another card with far too much confidence.
Admittedly, this is the first time I’ve ever played this game. It feels strange to experience a game as simple as Uno, something most preschoolers can do, at twenty-five. Growing up, it just never came up. Not in any of my placements, not in the families or group homes I bounced through. Board games and card games weren’t exactly a priority when caseworkers were stretched thin and foster parents were just trying to get through the day.
When Logan first suggested Uno tonight, I thought it was silly, childish, even. But I have to admit, it’s actually really fun—even if the rules feel completely made up and wildly unfair when they’re not working in my favor.
We keep playing, the pile of cards between us growing as we trade colors and numbers, draw twos and reverses. Logan trash-talks with every card he plays, and I find myself laughing more than I have in years.
Staying with Logan while Penny works through the logistics of my case against Preston is not something I ever had on my bingo card for this year. Honestly, aside from finishing school, I’ve never really allowed myself to make long-term plans. Life has always felt too unpredictable, too out of my control, to imagine anything stretching beyond the next few months.
Yet here I am, experiencing so many firsts with Logan.
Playing Uno and other games, going to the farmers’ market, cooking new meals together, binge-watching TV shows, laughing every day, and most importantly, waking up without fear sitting heavy on my chest are a few firsts I’ve experienced with Logan.
It feels like I’m learning how to live for the first time, how to exist without constantly bracing for impact.
Something as simple as sitting across from someone at a kitchen counter, arguing about card game rules while not worrying the argument is going to escalate, and eating too many strawberries, feels extraordinary—not because it’s grand or romantic, but because it’snormal.
And that’s what I’ve been missing my entire life.
Normalcy.
Safety.
The permission to just… be.
