Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

“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, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying to give you an organ, and you’re sitting here shit-talking me to my face.” He smacks his lips. “Someone’s gotta do it. You’re more depressing than I am, even though I’m the one who’s dying. Surprised you’re not offering me both kidneys with how goddamn emo you’ve been lately.”

We don’t even have to see or speak to each other for Sebastian Rousseau to occupy space in my mind. My meditation practice is a struggle, constantly interrupted by flashes of surly brows, a square jaw rough with stubble, and big, calloused hands.

Fucking Sebastian Rousseau.

“For fuck’s sake,” Bash growls. “You’re killing me.” And then he stuns me by reaching forward, his fingers cradling my jaw as calloused thumbs sweep my tears away with a touch far gentler than I would have expected.

Tears for me. Happy tears. It threw me for a fucking loop. I hated it, but a part of me loved it too. Because for a moment, it felt like someone in the world really saw me—and liked what they saw.

All I know is that the first thing that comes to mind is, If I live, I’m coming after you.

So much regret. Should have, could have, would have. Why didn’t I take his number? Why didn’t I try to find him? Why did I automatically assume I wasn’t good enough for him to stay interested?

The gray sweats. The ones that leave almost nothing to the imagination.

I fear if I soften up even a smidge, I’ll cross a boundary I shouldn’t. Take something that isn’t mine. Irrevocably fuck up my relationship with the son I’ve always wanted. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t an item anymore. It would still be a betrayal. An incredibly unfatherly one at that.

“Goddamn, you must be good with your hands.”

Fuck, she’s so pretty, I can’t even stand it.

I’ve had too many quiet days spent recovering thinking about her. And I hate it. I hate it because what I want to do is close this gap between us. Shove her up against the wall. Peel those tight fucking yoga pants off that perfectly round ass. But I can’t. And I hate it. In fact, my desperate craving makes me hate myself a little bit too.

I find myself fixating on the smell of him, willing him to look my way. To say something. To throw all that loyalty and commitment that I admire about him out the fucking window and cross a line. I daydream about it. Him, swiping all the chopped vegetables off the counter and lifting me onto it. Him, taking me out onto that balcony and bending me over the railing.

Fuck, he’s handsome. I never—not once in my life—had this kind of physical reaction to another person. Several beats pass, and I’m transported to a quiet corner of an airport with a handsome stranger who makes butterflies erupt in my stomach. That feeling of being alone with him is impossible to shake.

We connected. We had that spark. The one you can’t force. The kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And the worst part is, we both know it. Who knows where it could have gone? It could have been nowhere at all, but I still feel the loss of that possibility. Acutely.

“Gwen. I can’t fuck it all up. I can’t cross that line, no matter how tempted I am.”