Page 125 of The Wild Card

He sets down his bag and washes his hands at the kitchen sink while I plate the food. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms flexing as he scrubs, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like remember what those hands felt like on my skin. We move around each other carefully, like dancers who’ve forgotten the choreography. No accidental touches. No brushing of shoulders. A precise, painful distance.

We sit at the kitchen table—the same table where we played questions, where I taught him to fold egg whites, where he looked at me like I was something worth looking at.

I try not to think about that.

“This is good,” Crew says after his first bite.

“Thanks. New recipe. Trying to get the sauce ratios right for the book.”

“It’s good,” he repeats, because Crew has never been great at elaborating.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Murphy weaves between our chairs, hoping for scraps.

“So,” I say, because someone has to. “How’s the cabin coming?”

He looks up, surprised. “You want to hear about the cabin?”

“We’re being normal roommates, right? Normal roommates ask about each other’s weekends.”

Something flickers in his expression. He sets down his fork. “It’s coming along. Got the porch finished. Replaced most of the windows. Kitchen’s still a disaster, but I’m building new cabinets.”

“Building them? Like, from scratch?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“YouTube tutorials.” The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “And a lot of trial and error. Mostly error.”

“What’s the inside like now?”

“Still rough. Floors need to be refinished. Fireplace needs to be rebuilt from basically nothing. Plumbing works, but barely.” He shrugs. “It’s a lot.”

“Sounds like it.” I twirl noodles around my fork. “What made you buy it? A cabin in Oklahoma seems kind of random.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I needed something to do with my hands.”

The honesty of it catches me off guard. I wait, and after a beat, he continues.

“When my brain gets loud, it helps to have something physical. Something I can fix. Something with clear problems and clear solutions.” He stares at his plate. “The cabin has a lot of problems. Could take years to fix them all.”

Years. Like he’s planning to need this escape for a long time.

I don’t say that. Instead, I ask, “What’s it like out there? The area?”

“Quiet. Lots of trees. There’s a lake about a mile away—I haven’t been yet, but the previous owner said it’s good for fishing.” He pauses. “You can see the stars at night. Really see them. No light pollution.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is.”

More silence. But it’s softer now. Less jagged.

“You should eat more,” I say, nodding at his half-finished plate. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’m fine.”

“Crew.”