Page 93 of The Wild Card

I shake my head, reaching for the wine bottle. “Can we please talk about something else now? Tell me about Dave. Tell me about work. Tell me about literally anything.”

Sadie sighs but relents. “Fine. But I’m going on record saying I think you’re wrong about him.”

“Noted.”

“And I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ when this all works out.”

“Noted.”

She launches into a story about a kid at the hospital who somehow got a Lego stuck in his ear, and I let myself laugh, let myself relax, let myself pretend I’m not already in way deeper than I ever meant to be.

But later, in the Uber home, I think about what she said.

What if it could be real?

And I hate how much I want it to be.

Chapter Twenty-One

Uncharted Territory

Crew

Something’s wrong with Emmie.

I notice it the second I walk through the door. The apartment is quiet—no music playing, no pots clanging, no cheerful humming from the kitchen. The lights are dim. Murphy is sitting outside the closed door to her bedroom, meowing plaintively.

“Emmie?”

No answer.

I set down my bag, my brain already cycling through possibilities. Did something happen? Is she hurt? Did someone—

“Emmie.” I knock on her door. “You okay?”

A muffled groan. “I’m fine.”

She’s not fine. I’ve learned her well enough by now to know what fine sounds like, and that isn’t it.

“Can I come in?”

A pause. Then: “Yeah.”

I push open the door and find her curled into a ball in the center of her bed, wrapped in approximately seven blankets despite the fact that it’s seventy-two degrees in the apartment. Her hair is piled in a messy bun. She’s wearing my hoodie—when did she steal my hoodie?—and clutching a pillow to her stomach like a life raft. I have no idea what’s wrong, but I do know I’m about to fix it—by any means necessary.

“Hey.” She gives me a weak smile. “How was work?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just…” She shifts, winces. “Lady stuff. It’s fine.”

Lady stuff. It takes me a second, and then—oh. Oh.

I have absolutely no idea what to do with this information.

“Right.” I stand in the doorway like an idiot. “Do you need… something?”

“I’m okay. Just riding it out.” She curls tighter around the pillow. “Sorry I didn’t make dinner. There’s leftover pasta in the fridge if you—”