Page 131 of The Wild Card

I close my laptop, pour myself a glass of wine, and cry for approximately twenty minutes. Happy tears, mostly. Relieved tears. The kind of tears that come when you’ve poured everything you have into something and somehow, miraculously, it didn’t destroy you.

Murphy watches from the kitchen counter, deeply unimpressed.

“I did it, Murph.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I actually did it.”

He yawns.

“You’re right. Time to celebrate.”

I text Sadie first. Then my mom. Then my editor, who responds with approximately forty-seven exclamation points and a promise to call tomorrow.

I’m halfway through my second glass of wine when Crew walks through the door.

He pauses, taking in the scene—me on the couch, mascara smeared, wine in hand, grinning like an idiot.

“You okay?”

“I finished the book.”

Something shifts in his expression. Softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s done. Like, actually done. I just sent it to my editor.”

“Emmie, that’s—” He sets down his bag, and for a second, I think he might hug me. He doesn’t, but the impulse was there. I saw it. “That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” I raise my glass. “I’m celebrating. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You deserve it.”

We stand there for a moment, the familiar awkwardness settling between us. But underneath it, something else. Something warm.

“How’s the cabin?” I ask, because it’s our safe topic now.

“Done, actually.”

“Wait, really? Done done?”

“Yeah. I mean, I have to finish the last of the trim work this weekend. But it’s—” He shrugs, but I can see the pride underneath. “It’s livable. Finally.”

“Crew, that’s amazing!”

“It’s just a cabin.”

“It’s not just a cabin. It’s your cabin. The thing you built with your own hands.” I set down my wine glass, an idea forming. “You should have a housewarming.”

“A what?”

“A housewarming. A party. You invite people over, they bring gifts, you show off your hard work.” I’m warming to this idea now. “Nothing big. Just a weekend thing. Foster, Sadie, maybe a few others. Bonfire. S’mores. Stargazing.”

“I don’t do parties.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a party, not really; it’s a gathering. A small, intimate gathering of people who want to celebrate you.”

“That sounds like a party.”

“Crew.” I give him my most persuasive look—the one that usually works on Murphy and occasionally works on stubborn FBI agents. “You spent months building something incredible. Let people see it. Let yourself be proud of it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. I can see him running through objections in his head, cataloging all the reasons this is a bad idea.