Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

I can tell she’s got a knack for helping people. For making a dark room feel just a little bit brighter. And that’s not something you can learn in the pages of a book.

I let her thread her dainty fingers through mine, as though we’ve done this a thousand times before. Heat hums through my hand, racing up the veins in my arm. She warms me. And a cautious optimism surges from within. It makes me think that maybe—just maybe—despite my surliness and sour mood, she might be enjoying my company. I hope she is. Because I know I’m enjoying hers, bewildered as that might make me.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asks, not dropping my hand this time. “Sure.” I shrug. “But tired is kind of relative. I have been more tired. And there are worse things to be than tired. I’ll let my body rest tomorrow. Tonight, we make memories.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I volley, falling back on self-deprecation because there’s this little mean, vain part inside me that still feels unworthy of this kind of attention. You’re too big. You talk too much. Your optimism is obnoxious. They’re hard insecurities to shake, especially when they were planted so young, reinforced by the words I grew up hearing. But I’ve come to embrace these parts of myself. Most days, I believe they are some of my best qualities. Other days, I hear my dad’s voice in my head. And I hate it.

But then, the way his mom treats him is downright childlike. Like she shot him out of her vagina to songbirds chirping, a double rainbow arching across the sky, as the hospital staff erupted into a celebratory flash mob dance.

“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.

my profile. “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.”

“You know what’s complicated?” Tabby’s head rolls toward me. “Life. Life is complicated. And short. Gwen, life is too damn short not to wade through all the complications.

“The world is your oyster, Gwen. But eating oysters with someone else is the best. Do you know why?” “Why?” “Because they make you horny.” Tabby winks at me over her shoulder as she flicks the door open.

All the best things in life are complicated.”

don’t know if I can force myself to have a nicer, more palatable personality,

The possibility of it hits me hard in the chest. I’m past pretending I don’t want this, at least—someone to wake up with. To share a coffee with. To enjoy the view with.

That at the end of the day, I’ll have someone to hold for the night,

letting my breathing fall in time with theirs.

Clyde smiles—a rare, genuine smile. Not a smirk, not a mischievous grin, but the kind of smile that speaks to a bone-deep happiness. It’s a smile I don’t wear often. But, in this moment, it might be reflected on my face too.

Even though I want to tell him how hot it is to hear him apologize. Too many people walk around never reflecting on their actions, never owning them, never admitting when they’re wrong.

I know he’s showing up for himself, but it feels like he’s showing up for me too.

never really thought marriage was for me, but seeing these couples, the way they can lean on each other without losing themselves has me rethinking my stance.

Always. I need you too. That’s why I’m never waiting on you. I’m living with you.”

He rests his head in my lap and wraps his arms around my calves, letting out a deep, heavy sigh. I bow my head closer to his and trail my fingers through his hair. He smells like smoke and engine oil and the soft bristles against my fingertips provide a comfort. He grounds me. I breathe him in. I breathe my anxiety out. I breathe him in. I breathe my doubt out. I breathe him in. I breathe my fears out. Because with Bash at my side, nothing feels as terrifying.