Page 126 of The Wild Card

“I’m fine, Emmie.”

The way he says my name—tired, gentle, sad—makes my chest ache.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge. Blue container. In case you get hungry later.”

He looks at me, and for a second, the walls come down. Just a flicker—there and gone. “Thank you. For dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

We finish eating. He clears the plates before I can stop him, washing them with the same precision he applies to everything. I lean against the counter and watch him, trying not to remember all the times we stood in this kitchen together, laughing, bumping hips, stealing bites of whatever I was cooking. His shirt stretches across his shoulders as he scrubs a plate, and my fingers itch with the memory of touching him there. Of being allowed to touch him at all.

“Emmie.”

“Yeah?”

He turns off the water but doesn’t turn around. “Are you… are you okay? Generally?”

The question is so unexpected I don’t know how to answer.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Are you?”

“I’m asking about you.”

“And I’m deflecting. It’s what we do now, apparently.”

He turns then, leaning against the sink, arms crossed. The defensive posture I know so well.

“The guy,” he says. “The one you’ve been seeing. Is he… is he good to you?”

My heart stutters. “You know about that?”

“Sorry, I overheard you on the phone with Sadie.”

I could lie. I could tell him Reece is amazing, that we’re getting serious, that I’m totally over whatever this was between us.

Instead, I tell the truth.

“I’m not seeing him. It was just one date. It didn’t work out.”

Something shifts in Crew’s expression. Relief? Guilt? I can’t tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Are you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Murphy chooses this moment to jump onto the counter, and Crew scoops him up automatically, settling the cat against his chest. Murphy purrs, the traitor.

“It’s getting late,” Crew says. “I should—”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of us moves.

“This was nice,” I say. “Dinner. Talking. Being semi-normal.”

“Yeah. It was.”