Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

“Bash.” “What?” He spits the word, glaring down at my hand like my touch offends him. But he doesn’t shake me off. “The number is wrong.” He blinks as I hold his phone out, open to the contact card. “It’s six-nine-nine not six-six-nine.”

“I never got your messages, and if I had…” I swallow, trailing off and licking my lips. “I…” A frustrated groan lurches from my throat when I see the devastation etched on this man’s face as he looks beyond me, staring blankly at the perfectly white wall. 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.”

His lips twitch, and his Adam’s apple bobs, but he doesn’t look back up at me. 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.

BASH

Four months later…

“I’ll be checking the news” is all I respond with as I head up the mountain toward Clyde’s property. “I’m going to lose reception right away here, but stay in touch, okay?” A beat of silence passes between us. There’s still something surreal about talking with him at all. He already has parents to keep in the loop, and I can’t help but feel like it must be inconvenient to add another one to his busy schedule. Still, he responds, “You bet.” And it’s only slightly awkward. Progress. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself every time we have a remotely normal conversation.

I never know what I’ll find when I pull up to the small log home. Today is no exception. “Clyde, what the fuck are you doing?” I watch as the older man hobbles around my black pickup truck, bending over stiffly to inspect god knows what. “Hold yer horses! Kids these days are so impatient.” He shuffles across the snow, a smattering of wiry, white facial hair covering his stubborn jaw as he pants from the simple walk to my truck. It’s taking all my self-control to not get out and help him. But the thing about Clyde is that he doesn’t want any help. Convincing him to give dialysis a go was the challenge of my life.

It’s actually weird that his kidneys are the issue and not some type of skin cancer. But his doctors assured me that, aside from the kidneys, he’s as healthy as a horse. I’m worried about him, though. I can’t help it. I’ve grown attached to the ornery old git. “What are you waiting for? Me to die while you stare at me?” He crosses his arms and shoots me a petulant glare from beneath his trucker hat.

Clyde’s lips twitch. “You’re so crabby. Still stewing over the wall-punching incident?” Now that is something I don’t want to talk about. So I don’t answer. I just glare at him. He doesn’t reach for the seat belt, and I’m out of patience. “Fuck it,” I mutter, shifting my truck into reverse and throwing a hand over the back of his seat to maneuver down the long driveway. If he refuses to wear a seat belt, then it’s not my hill to die on. “Oh, so we’re still pretending that didn’t happen?”

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.

I headed straight to the airport to come home, thinking my luck couldn’t get any worse. But I’d been wrong. Because 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.

Even if we only talk about work. Work is safe. Personal lives are dicey. Gwen is personal. And I sure as shit don’t want to talk to him about her. I don’t even want to think about her. With him. Clyde’s raspy voice interrupts my spiral. “You should call her.” Her. I don’t even need to ask who he’s talking about. I scoff and roll my eyes as I pull the truck around to head down the back road. Of course, Clyde has to live way the hell and gone—up the back side of the mountain. Something about fewer cameras tracking him. As if anyone wants to track Clyde and his daily puttering around his land. “Absolutely not. That would be beyond inappropriate.” “According to who?” “Everyone, Clyde. Everyone. Especially my son—her boyfriend—who I’m trying to be friendly with. I’m trying not to totally fuck everything up with him, so it might be best to steer clear of that ticking time bomb.”

“Seems to me that little prick could use some fucking with.”

They can all say what they want about me. But teasing Gwen about her eating habits felt like a backhanded way of criticizing her body. And that set me off. Because her fucking body. I’ve dreamed of it. Of her. I know I shouldn’t—especially now—but my subconscious is having a grand old time torturing me over what could have been. What I could have had.

Something about him doing it all alone, with no one in his corner, doesn’t sit right with me. So I continue to show up for him. I promised I would, and if there’s one thing I am, it’s loyal.

he pauses and turns back. Watery, blue eyes narrow in on me, more perceptive than he has any right to be. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m going to anyway. So listen up. Just because you got horny at fifteen and that kid has half your DNA, it doesn’t mean you need to let him treat you like shit while you constantly beat yourself up over his existence. And for what it’s worth, when doomsday hits, he’s not invited to my bunker. But you are.”

Bowling is a success. For once. And I suppose that’s why West dragged us all to Rose Hill Reach to celebrate with “the girls” as he calls them. Rosie, Skylar, and Tabby have paired off with my teammates, which firmly makes me the seventh wheel of the friend group.

we’ve picked up two more regular members—ones I don’t hate. Ford, West’s childhood best friend, and Rhys, a stray that our local bistro owner dropped off one day. Don’t know much about the guy, but I like him a lot. He’s not annoying, and he doesn’t ask a bunch of questions. We’ve struck up a friendship that mostly consists of rolling our eyes at West and exchanging to-the-point text messages. 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.

It hits me with a pang in my stomach. Makes me realize all the domestic milestones I’ve missed out on in my life. Not because I’m averse to them, but because I’ve been thwarted at every turn. To avoid any further rejection, I’ve turned my focus to my career, and now it’s like half my life has gone poof before my eyes. Watching these boys makes me feel like I’ve missed out on something integral. Something I don’t know that I’ll ever have.

Until one single sentence out of Rhys’s mouth stops me in my tracks. “That’s my yoga instructor, Gwen.” My head snaps toward the table, and my gut drops to the floor beneath me. Because, sure as shit, there is Gwen from the airport. Tripp’s Gwen. Sitting at a table with my friends. In my town.

My heart races uncharacteristically. I’m too fucking old for this shit. My molars grind against each other as I watch Gwen stand to let Tabby back into the booth. As Gwen slides in beside her, the guys head over there, and my feet move to follow, even though I’m dreading facing her again. Especially after my meltdown at Tripp’s party. I stand stiffly as introductions are made, Gwen smiling graciously each time. That captivating twinkle in her eye takes me back to gazing at her over too-sweet margaritas. Then, the moment I’ve been bracing for arrives when Tabby gestures in my direction. “Gwen, this is Bash.”

“Yeah, actually… We’ve met.” I can’t tell if it’s just me or if the entire bar suddenly becomes quieter. Rosie, Ford’s fiancée, goes wide-eyed, already sinking her teeth into the moment like a dog with a bone. She’s a force to be reckoned with—I know because she’s bargained with me, talking me into taking offseason contracting jobs I didn’t need. If she starts sniffing around, it’s only a matter of time before all the dirty details of my and Gwen’s missed connection will come spilling out. “You have?”

“Yup,” I reply brusquely, trying not to cave under the weight of everyone’s stares while also trying not to gawk at Gwen. “Good to see you again. I’m going to head out. You kids have fun.” And with that, I flee. Like the down-bad coward I am.

GWEN

I watch Bash go with my heart in my throat and my eyes on his ass. I don’t even think I’m being subtle about it. Which is probably why Rhys pipes up with, “Do you know him from yoga?” From yoga. It takes me back to that night in the airport. The heat of his gaze on my body as I flowed through some of my favorite poses. I’d felt sensual—desired—in that moment, like I could sense his appreciation humming in the air around me. It’s something I’ve never felt before. So you could say that I know him from yoga, but it’s become so much more than that. And saying that I know him because the universe keeps pushing us together would probably get me an eye roll.

I’m on a mission to gather as much knowledge as possible, with the dream of one day opening my own studio.

Yeah, so far, Rose Hill has been pretty damn perfect. Cool women. A stable job. Mind-blowing mountain views. The guy I met a year ago. The one I haven’t been able to forget. The one who still hasn’t reached out to me, even with the correct number. The one who probably hates me now for having dated his son. And that all stings just a little more than it should.

A short man with scraggly, white facial hair, a cap perched on his head, and a cane clutched in his hand, enters the room. Knobby knees peek out between loose shorts and clunky snow boots, an odd choice considering snow hasn’t fallen in the valley yet. My brows furrow, curiosity piqued. “Hi. Welcome to Bliss Yoga.” He mumbles something indistinguishable under his breath. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Gwen?” My head tilts. “I am.” “Are you a yoga teacher?” “I am.” He stomps his boots, nods, and points his cane toward me. “Good. You’re the one I’ve heard about, then. I want to take a yoga class with you.”

“Well, I’d love to have you in a class, but the next one on the schedule isn’t until four p.m. Would you be willing to come back then?” He waves me off with a little scoff. “No. I’ll take a private lesson.” I blink. He knows what he wants, and he wants it now. “Okay. Do you want to look at our price list?” His cheeks pinch like I’ve offended him. “Can’t put a price on quality.” A small chuckle escapes me. “That’s fair.” I pull out a waiver. “Can I get you to fill this out for me? Just so we have some of your information on file.”

Once in the room, he removes his coat, and I see it then, a heavily distended abdomen. Based on the shape of his socks, I’m assuming his ankles and feet are swollen too. “Clyde, I know you weren’t keen to write down your medical history—especially in front of the camera—but do you think you could tell me about any major health issues you might be facing?” “Yeah.” He hangs his coat on a hook and turns to face me. “I’m in kidney failure, and according to the white coats at the hospital, that’s pretty major.”

My brain cycles through the best poses or asanas that could benefit kidney health, liver support, and energy flow to keep the swelling from getting worse. I’m well aware yoga has its limits. I won’t be able to make him better, but I’m confident I can make him feel better. I can help Clyde Gibbons be comfortable.

A jingle at the front door takes my attention away from sanitizing the mats after my last class. “Be right there!” I call out, setting the spray bottle and rag down before pushing myself to my feet. I’m shaking my hands dry as I round the corner, my gaze lifting to see Clyde standing there. Back again after yesterday. It makes me smile. But when my eyes slide up behind him, the smile falls off my face. Bash. Looking like he could kill someone. And also looking hot as hell in black jeans, work boots, and flannel jacket, sherpa collar flipped up to beat the chill.

“You’re back.” He shrugs. “Turns out I like yoga.” Bash groans and rolls his eyes so dramatically that his head practically follows their motion. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here—especially since he can barely look at me. But me? I beam because I knew yesterday’s stretching would make Clyde feel better. “I’m thrilled to hear that. Maybe we can make a more regular appointment?” “Sure. I’ll make it for right now.” Bash glares at Clyde. “Whatever you do, 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.”

“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.” My lips twitch. “How long will he be? I’ll come pick him up,” Bash says to me, but he directs his gaze to the clock on the wall. “An hour.” Bash nods, but his eyes don’t move.

God, what I’d give to talk the way we did that night. Honest and open and unexpected. But I also know there’s now an ocean between us. Two little numbers. One man. And not just any man—his son. Had I known… I shake the thought away, not wanting to feel guilty over things I couldn’t have predicted.

“I’m a big girl. With a big truck. And above-average driving skills. You can take your bad energy elsewhere, Bash.” His head snaps up as Clyde chortles. “Bad energy?” I lift my chin and wave a hand over him. “Yes. It’s time for you and your fully blocked crown chakra to go.” Clyde nods. “Oh, you’re right. His crown chakra is fucked.” Bash glares at his friend. “Why are you pretending you know anything about the crown chakra?” “Gwen told me about the chakras yesterday. She said one has to do with enlightenment. And you are certainly not acting very enlightened.”

BASH

“Feels good. And as I’ve always said, ‘If it feels good, do it.’” I glare at Clyde. He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face. I swear he’s like a child sometimes. “Clyde, that’s not something you’ve always said. That’s a Sloan song.” He grumbles. “Huh. Maybe it was, ‘If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.’” I sigh and drop my head to my palm. It’s not worth telling him that’s a Sheryl Crow song. “Whichever one it is, you should take my advice,” he says. “A private yoga class would be good for you.”

Anxiety builds in my stomach the closer we get to the yoga studio because having to see Gwen here—so close and yet so fucking far away—is its own special brand of torture. 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.

It’s been a year, and try as I might, I can’t shake her. Or what could have been. I blew it when I entered that one number wrong. And the brutal truth is that I can’t act on it with me and Tripp still trying to find solid ground.

But every other night, I’m home alone, consumed by what could have been, knowing Gwen from the airport is staying practically down the street. Nothing happened between us, and yet her mere presence eats me up inside. I’ve never been known for my enthusiasm, but I’ll admit, even by my standards, I’m dark these days.

it’s not until we pull up in front of the yoga studio that Clyde looks my way. “You’re acting like a sullen teenager,” he says plainly. Then he gets out. I’m annoyed to realize he’s right. And I have no clue how to stop. So I decide my best course of action is to avoid Gwen at all costs.

Months pass of Gwen and I skirting each other.

So like the mature adult I am, I stick to the opposite side of the room when we wind up in the same place at the same time. I make conversation with literally anyone other than her, while also listening in on her conversations, desperately lapping up any droplets of information I can get. Truth be told, I’m listening for any mention of Tripp. On one hand, I hope like hell she dumped his ass. On the other, I hope they’re making it work because Gwen is a catch and that’s what a good dad should want for his son.

“Meh. You only live once, Sebastian. And I don’t think it will be that long for me. Let me enjoy my swamp beer. Can’t make my kidneys any worse than they already are.” Clyde has been on the transplant list for some time now—and it’s not looking good. As much as I grumble about the guy, the prospect of losing his annoying ass is more than I can take right now. I swallow hard and glance away. My eyes catch on his wheelchair in the corner. He’s gotten so weak that walking has become difficult. I can tell that he’s tired. For his sake, I try to stay positive.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been wallowing in misery for months or if it’s a reaction to the toxic levels of Green No. 3 in my beer, but I blurt out my next words without thinking. “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.” My head falls back as I glare up at the ceiling. “Get fucked, Clyde.” Then I pause and turn back to meet his watery, blue eyes, the whites of which look awfully yellow these days. A word sticks in my head as I stare back at him. In an instant, my throat goes tight, my palms sweaty. “Did you say ex-girlfriend?”

“Caught that, did ya? You little pervert.”