Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

For the ones who were told their dreams were too dreamy but who went on to make them come true anyway. And for my awful high school English teacher, Mr. C, who looked me in the eye at sixteen years old and told me I’d never be a good writer. Thanks for the motivation.

One year ago… I’m stuck in an airport, and everyone is annoying me.

“It’s okay. It is what it is. I’m going to make the most of it! When life gives you lemons…” It squeezes the acid right in your fucking eyes.

And that voice? It’s the furthest thing from girlish. That voice is all grown-up. It’s not giddy or overly bright. It’s all honey and spice, smooth with a hint of heat—borderline sensual without even trying.

“Maybe this seat was meant to be empty.” My lips flatten. “Yes, exactly. It was.” She laughs softly, head shaking as though I fascinate her. “Yet here I am. And you know what they say… When life gives you lemons…”

“What if I wanted limes?” I ask, right as a flustered server pops up at our table with a breathless, “What can I get you?” With her eyes fixed on mine and that pretty mouth curved into a knowing smile, Gwen—the interloper—doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. This man desperately needs a lime margarita. Extra sour.”

“Bash” is short for Sebastian Rousseau. Even his name is hot,

“Come on. Don’t quit on me now. I have a deep inner need to make you like me, and I feel like I’m getting close.” With a roll of my eyes, I toss back the last of my margarita. “I like you just fine, Gwen,” I grumble as I reach for her hand. “That’s what you keep saying. But I’m not settling for fine,” she volleys, giving my arm an eager tug.

Her face breaks into the most heartrending smile. And all it does is make me want to pay her more compliments.

I realize that, for being an absolute stranger, I like him far more than I have any right to.

“How old are you, Gwen?” His dark eyes spark, and the question drips with—I don’t know what to call it. Promise? Knowing? He has to know I’m younger, but I’m also not so young that I’m afraid to take him by the hand and drag him out of the bar just to get him alone. So I don’t slink away. I just tilt my head and let my eyes flit down to the grim line of his mouth. “I’m twenty-seven, Bash.”

“Don’t Gwen me.” A dimple on his right cheek pops up. “Gwenyth?” “Nope.” I continue taking slow steps back toward the conveyor. “Gwendolyn?” I wink at him. “Nope. Sorry, that’s first-date information.” He blinks. And blinks again. He looks so floored by what I’ve just said, I can’t keep myself from smiling. I’m about to turn from him, ready to face the walkway, but his words bring me up short. “What are we calling tonight, then?”

“Oh, tonight? Tonight is just our meet-cute. It’s the night we’ll tell our kids about one day. Remember?”

“Respectively,” I clarify quickly, pointing a finger back and forth between us. “Our respective children. Separately.” His expression remains unchanged. Things are already awkward, so I add one more parting shot with a little shrug for good measure. “Or not.”

“Found out I have a kid I never knew about. Met him for the first time yesterday.”

“We were both fifteen and clearly stupid. I was the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, and she was very much from the right side. It sounds like her family played a heavy-handed role in sending her to a private boarding school. They even moved to a different city. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I showed up for class and she was just gone. Broke my fucking heart.”

“What’s that saying again? When life gives you lemons?” I tap a finger against my lips. “Hmm, I’m not familiar with that one. The only one I know is When life gives you limes…”

“I’ve only got about an hour,” he says. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Only an hour to ask for your number.” My eyes snap to his, red-rimmed and clearly tired. “Me playing chase on the moving walkway didn’t scare you off?” He shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls his phone out, hitting me with a gravelly “Not at all.”

“I’m kind of nomadic and move around a lot. I don’t have a home base.”

“I don’t care. I’ll figure it out. I want to see you again.”

They robbed me of the opportunity. Now I’m left feeling like I missed out on something I never even knew was within reach. And it’s only made worse by the fact that I’ve wanted a family of my own. That yearning cost me my marriage. I wanted something she didn’t. So we parted ways, and I’ve been too shit-scared to try again.

The entire week has left me feeling low. Until Gwen sat her fine ass in the chair across from me and made herself at home. She made me feel better.

I’m trying, and to his credit, Tripp is trying too. As in, we exchange the odd text. Usually, it’s me congratulating him on his game—because I watch all of them now. Hell, I even bought a jersey with his name on it. I guess I’m a fan now. Even if I’m not a fan of his mother.

I want so much more. I want all the birthdays I missed. I want the first steps back. High school graduation. His NHL draft—the one I looked up on the internet, only to watch his name be called and see him hugging his mom and stepdad. It was the happiest of moments. And I was nowhere to be seen.

Beautiful doe eyes, more lavender than blue. Eyes I haven’t seen in eight months. All the air leaves my lungs in one rough exhale. Because I’d know those eyes anywhere. I’ve dreamed of them.

“Bash, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Gwen. Gwen Dawson.” The word girlfriend falls through me, landing hard and heavy in my gut. Yeah. What are the fucking chances?

There’s a kind way to let a girl down, and it isn’t by letting her constantly check her phone like a desperate teenager hoping that the cute boy she’s obsessed with might text her. For months.

It would seem that, with the Colemans, perception reigns supreme. Especially considering he told me his biological dad was a deadbeat who left his mom when he found out she was pregnant.

I’ve wondered if it was one of those moments in the universe where all the stars align—where every little choice made in life led us to that airport on that exact night. Maybe it was just a little bit of magic. Inexplicable and undeniable all at once. What I do know for sure is that it’s been eight months, and I still think about Sebastian Rousseau every damn day.

“Easy, girl. Don’t eat too much.”

“The fuck did you just say to her?”

AAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

“All in good fun, right, babe?” He winks at me, like I’m in on his joke, and turns his attention to his dad, who is staring daggers at him. “No. Not in good fun,” Bash says. “That was plain rude.” Tripp scoffs and waves him off. “It was a joke. I just meant save some room for dinner. Don’t make it into something else.”

He’s gutted. I see it on his face. I feel it in his body. Hell, I can feel it in my own. This is a cruel, cruel joke. Because I may not know him well, but I ache for him all the same. I would have chosen him.

“Bash, I waited months for you to contact me. If I’d gotten those messages… You have to know I would have responded.” My voice turns almost pleading as I repeat, “I would have.”

Instead, without another word, he turns, yanks the door open, and storms out. I stand there, frozen—shaken. And that feeling is only made worse when, several seconds later, I hear a loud, “Fuck!” followed by what sounds an awful lot like a fist going through a wall.

Obviously, I couldn’t admit why I’d had a completely out-of-character outburst. Sorry, I’ve been obsessing over your girlfriend for months, blew my shot because, in the fog of pulling an all-nighter, I missed one fucking number, and now I’ll never have her.

there in the terminal, I ran into my ex-wife for the first time in three years. She looked happy, healthy, remarried, and very pregnant. Pregnant. Something she told me she never wanted to be. Something she clearly just didn’t want to be with me.

He reminds me of my friend Emmett, a professional bull rider on the WBRF circuit. He travels a lot, so we don’t see each other often, but when we do, we just pick up where we left off. Now and then, I get a message from him that says, “You still alive?” I give it a thumbs-up. And then, a couple of months later, I’ll check the standings on the WBRF website and give him shit for not being number one. I get back a “fuck you,” and I also give that a thumbs-up.

Beside me, Rhys stares at his wife, Tabitha. He’s already an intense guy, but when his gaze lands on her, that intensity ratchets up even further. Just watching them makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into something private.

“Who’s that?” Ford asks, though I don’t pay him any mind. He’s new in town and still learning the ropes. I’m too lost in my head to pay much attention to what the guys are saying. Until one single sentence out of Rhys’s mouth stops me in my tracks. “That’s my yoga instructor, Gwen.”

“Can I get you to fill this out for me? Just so we have some of your information on file.” The man steps forward, grumbling something that sounds an awful like that motherfucker is going to owe me as he reaches a shaky hand for the pen on the counter. I watch as he scratches in all caps, skipping entire sections, marking other ones with NONE OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS.

you can’t just drive down the mountain yourself like you did yesterday. Your legs don’t bend well enough after dialysis to push the pedals. You know this. I’ll slash the fucking tires on your car if you do that again. First responders don’t need to deal with the aftermath of your stubborn bullshit.” My eyes bounce between them as Clyde scoffs and waves a dismissive hand in his direction. “I’d like to see you try.” “Are you two related?” I blurt, entertained by the grumpy-man face-off. “Fuck no,” Bash mutters, but Clyde lets out a high-pitched giggle, like he’s amused by the other man. “Sometimes it feels like we are, though, doesn’t it, Bash?” “In the sense that I wish I could get rid of you, but I can’t? Yes. Yes, it does.”

“All right, let’s go do your weird stretches, followed by that Savasa-whatever-you-called-it. It made me feel a lot better.”

Go look at something purple, Clyde teased yesterday. And all I could think was, I can’t. Not when everything purple reminds me of Gwen’s unusual eye color. And looking at Gwen makes me want that first date she teased me about, the one where I finally learn her full name. It’s been a year, and try as I might, I can’t shake her. Or what could have been.

Slowly but surely, Tripp Coleman is starting to feel less like a stranger and more like someone I’ll know for the rest of my life.

“I think we should see if I’m a match.” Clyde laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “That’s a mean joke, ya little shit. I like it.” I blink, gears turning in my head, before shifting on my stool to face him. “I’m not joking. I’ve got two working kidneys and nothing but time on my hands right now. Wouldn’t hurt to check.”

“Only you could make giving me a kidney about yourself. Oh please, Clyde, let me give you a kidney so I can feel better about myself,” he teases in a whiny voice. I scoff. “You know what, maybe I should just let you die.” “At least then I wouldn’t have to spend all my free time with a guy who cries as he masturbates while thinking about his son’s ex-girlfriend.”

“Clyde, you say the wildest stuff sometimes. I don’t even know where you come up with it. What would she report?” He grins. “That you’d miss me if I died and that you desperately want to save your best friend’s life.” My eyes roll. Best friend. “No kidney for you. I take it back.” “I’ll talk to Doris. She can arrange to have it harvested against your will.” “You would too,” I grumble. Clyde just cackles, all raspy and amused. “You’re so obnoxiously loyal, you’d still be my friend if I did.”

In all honesty, spending time with Clyde fills something in me that I didn’t realize I’ve been missing. The way he calls to me when I enter his home—That you, kiddo? in his raspy voice—makes me smile every time. He always asks about my yoga classes and how they’re going. Always checks if I’ve been sleeping well and eating properly. He always lights up when I walk in, and he always, always listens when I speak.