Page 129 of The Wild Card

I flag down the waiter, pay for my half of the meal—Brad doesn’t offer to cover it, which tracks—and get out of there as fast as my legs will carry me.

The Uber ride home involves a stop at a liquor store. I buy a bottle of wine that costs more than Brad’s entire personality is worth and drink half of it in the elevator.

By the time I get to the apartment, I’m well on my way to drunk.

Crew is on the couch.

Of course he is. The one night I need to fall apart in peace, and he’s here—not at his stupid cabin, not working late, but sitting in the living room with Murphy on his lap and some documentary about World War II on the TV.

“Hey,” he says, then does a double take. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great.” I kick off my heels, nearly falling over in the process. “I’m fantastic. I’m living the dream.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m tipsy. There’s a difference.” I wave the wine bottle at him. “Want some? It’s the good stuff. Better than Brad deserves, but here we are.”

“Who’s Brad?”

“Brad is an asshole.” I collapse onto the other end of the couch, tucking my feet underneath me. Murphy immediately abandons Crew and crawls into my lap. “Brad is the reason women become lesbians.”

Crew’s mouth twitches. “That bad?”

“Worse.” I take another swig from the bottle. “He told me women in food are crazy. He spent forty-five minutes talking about himself and asked me exactly one question, which he then interrupted to tell me about his ex-girlfriend who threw a pan at his head.”

“Did she have good aim?”

“Apparently not, since he’s still alive.” I groan, letting my head fall back against the cushions. “Men are horrible.”

“I’m a man.”

“I know. You’re horrible too.” I lift my head to look at him. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The documentary drones on—something about D-Day, soldiers storming beaches, heroic sacrifices. I should probably care, but all I can think about is how tired I am. Tired of bad dates. Tired of trying to move on. Tired of pretending I don’t still want the man sitting three feet away from me.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you ever date? Before me, I mean. Like, real dating. Not contractual obligations with subsections.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Never saw the point.” He shifts, eyes fixed on the TV. “When you grow up the way I did, you learn not to get attached to things. People leave. Places change. Nothing is permanent.”

“The foster care thing?”

“Yeah. The foster care thing.” He says it flatly, like it’s just a fact and not a tragedy. “Eleven homes in ten years. You learn pretty quick that letting people in just means it hurts more when they go.”

My chest aches. “Crew…”

“I’m not saying it for sympathy. I’m just—” He exhales. “That’s why I’m like this. Why I can’t… be what people need me to be.”

“What do you think people need you to be?”

“Present. Open. Capable of—” He stops. Shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”