Page 112 of The Wild Card

Foster turns to look at me, something between horror and pity on his face. “Crew. This isn’t a fixer-upper. This is a tear-downer.”

“It has good bones,” I repeat.

“You keep saying that, but I’m not seeing bones. I’m seeing a crime scene.”

I gesture to the pile of lumber. “Porch needs to be finished. Then I’m replacing the windows.”

“Today?”

“Today’s a start.”

Foster shakes his head but grabs a hammer. For a while, we work in silence—him following my lead, asking occasional questions about measurements and technique. He’s not useless with his hands, but he’s clearly more comfortable behind a desk or chasing suspects than doing manual labor.

“So,” he says eventually. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Cool. We’re going to talk about it anyway.” He drives a nail in crooked, curses, and pries it out. “It’s been over a month, Crew. You look like shit. You’re barely sleeping—don’t deny it, I can see the bags under your eyes. And now you’re out here in the middle of nowhere, building a cabin like some kind of post-apocalyptic hermit.”

“I’m not building it. I’m renovating it.”

“That’s your takeaway from what I just said?”

I set down my hammer. “What do you want me to say, Foster?”

“I want you to admit you made a mistake. I want you to stop punishing yourself—and her—for something that doesn’t have to be over.”

“It is over.”

“Because you decided it was.” He turns to face me fully. “She didn’t leave, Crew. She didn’t ask you to end things. You did that. You blew it up before she had a chance to—”

“Before she had a chance to do it herself.” The words come out harsher than I intend. “I know how this ends, Foster. I’ve seen it play out a dozen times. People get close, they see what’s underneath, and they leave. Everyone leaves.”

“She’s not everyone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know she looked at you like you hung the goddamn moon. I know she learned your routines and your quirks and your damage, and she didn’t run. She stayed.”

“Because of the contract.”

“Fuck the contract!” Foster throws his hands up. “You think she was curled up on that couch with you because of a piece of paper? You think she held you through nightmares because of a clause?”

I don’t answer. I never should have told him that.

“She’s dating someone else now,” I finally say. “Some chef named Reece.”

Foster goes quiet, his jaw working. There’s more he wants to say.

“She’s moving on. That’s good. That’s what she should do.” I pick up my hammer again, stare at the nail I was about to drive in. “She deserves someone who can give her what she wants. The family, the kids, the whole picture. She deserves someone who isn’t—”

“Isn’t what? Broken?” Foster’s voice is softer now. “Crew. Everybody’s broken. That’s not a disqualifier for love. That’s just being human.”

“I’m not just broken. I’m—” I struggle to find the words. “She wants Sunday dinners and Christmas mornings and a house full of kids making messes. She wants normal. I can’t give her normal. I don’t even know what normal looks like.”

“So you learn. Together.”

“And what if I can’t? What if I try and I fail and I hurt her worse than I already have?” I shake my head. “At least this way it’s clean. She can move on. Find someone better.”