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.

When life gives you lemons…” It squeezes the acid right in your fucking eyes.

And you are giving off some serious stay-the-fuck-away energy.” I quirk a disbelieving brow at the woman. “Stay-the-fuck-away energy?” She hits me with a conspiratorial smile. “Yes. If you were a house, I would sage you.” Ah, more granola, woo-woo, make-lemonade, salt-of-the-earth shit. Exactly what I’m in the mood for.

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

“The fuck did you just say to her?” Bash’s voice is cold as ice from across the table.

“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.”

“Gwen told me about the chakras yesterday. She said one has to do with enlightenment. And you are certainly not acting very enlightened.” I blink while Bash scowls. “Well, forgive me for not taking lessons in enlightenment from a guy who believes Tupac is still alive.”

“You say Savasana, I say nap,”

“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.

Clyde is shit-talking us from the back like a snarky teenager. “Just focusing on the road, Clyde. I’ve got precious cargo in the back seat,” I deadpan, drawing a snort from Gwen and an eye roll from the older man. “That’s rich,” he grumbles. “We all know I’m only here because you’re a big, broody, dutiful motherfucker.”

“Well, I think being nice has more to do with behaving in a way that’s driven by social expectations. Whereas being kind is behaving in a way that’s driven by a concern for other people’s well-being. And the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I’d be rather wary of someone who is nice but not kind.”

“We’re taking good care of this kidney because no one else likes you enough to give you one.”

“Don’t insult him. He’s a professional athlete. He’s mastered something, and here you are, pretending spares are something special.” West just laughs. He’s impossible to piss off. “Man, you’re even more miserable than usual. Were all your good moods in the kidney that you gave away? Are you stuck with the bitchy kidney?”

“Bash, old boy, you’ve got a crush,” West announces eagerly, making me wince.

“We got stuck in an airport overnight together over a year ago.” West gasps. “Wait, she’s that girl? Didn’t you get her number?” My stomach drops hard and fast. I never told West that story. “How do you know that?” “Clyde told me.” Fucking Clyde.

Gwen: In all those zombie movies and shows, I will never understand those people’s obsession with staying alive. For what? Living in a zombie world where everything sucks and all is lost? No, sir. Not for me. Peace out, bitches. It’s been a slice. On to the next.

I blink. I had no clue Tripp was still upset over our breakup. “What’s that?” “That he was a fool to let you get away. But that it was just as well because I could fuck you better.”

All the best things in life are complicated.”

“Sunning his perineum?” Gwen snorts an unladylike laugh, her shoulders shaking with the effort of restraining herself. “That’s what he called it. In my head, I’ve been calling it tanning his taint.”

I shake my head, wondering how the fuck I got to a place where I’m talking about my feelings with the town conspiracy theorist and the girl I got drunk in an airport with. “But I’ll tell you what would be good for you,” Clyde starts back in. “Pot.” I go still, head tilting as I stare back at him. “Pot?” He dips his chin. “Yeah. You know…marijuana. Ganja. Dope. Grass. Reefer. Mary Jane. I don’t know what you kids are calling it these days, but it might serve you well. It’s medicinal.”

“Aha!” Clyde’s hand shoots up in the air, and he stabs toward the ceiling with one of my sharper kitchen knives. “I’m right!” He points the knife my way. “You, my friend, just need to blow a spliff, have a nap, and consider getting a little sun on your perineum.” “Clyde, I will never put sun on my perineum.” All I get for that is an eye roll. But then the man pauses. “Does that mean you’ll blow a jay with me?”

It turns out that when I care about someone—when I love someone—I’m willing to do anything for them. Join a stupid bowling team that I never really wanted to. Give them a kidney. Play Disney Princess with some shitty raccoon. All just to make them happy.

“Man, sometimes you have the emotional intelligence of a gnat, and quite frankly, so does he. Must be hereditary.”

“You’re a fucking wild card. Unpredictable and never what I expect. You scare the hell out of me every damn day. But today more than any of them. Because I thought I lost you.” His voice cracks. So does my heart. “And I love you, and I hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell you.”

“You’re my limes, Bash. I’m the tequila. You and me? We’re gonna spend the rest of our lives making margaritas, okay?”