Page 134 of The Wild Card

I think he’s more capable than he knows.

I just don’t know how to make him see it.

* * *

The evening unfolds in snapshots.

Crew is splitting wood for the fire, the axe swinging in a steady rhythm that does things to my brain I’m not proud of. The flex of his shoulders. The shift of muscle under the cotton of his t-shirt. The way he pauses to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, looking for all the world like a lumberjack fantasy come to life.

I busy myself in the kitchen, assembling charcuterie boards and pretending I’m not watching him through the window.

Foster brings in firewood, joking about Crew’s “mountain man phase.” Sadie pours wine and gives me significant looks every time Crew walks past.

The bonfire crackles to life as darkness falls, sparks spiraling up toward a sky crowded with stars.

We settle into camp chairs around the fire, plates of cheese and meat balanced on our laps, wine glasses catching the flickering light. It’s comfortable. Easy. Almost like it used to be, before everything got complicated.

“So, Emmie,” Foster says, because apparently he’s taken over Sadie’s role as chief instigator. “The cookbook’s done. What’s next?”

“Sleep for approximately one thousand years.” I take a sip of wine. “Then start thinking about book four, I guess. My editor’s already asking.”

“Any idea what it’ll be about?”

“Not yet. I need to live a little first. Get some new material.”

“I hear Oklahoma’s great for inspiration,” Sadie says innocently. “All this fresh air. The great outdoors. Rugged cabin life.”

I kick her under my chair.

“What about you, Crew?” Foster asks. “Cabin’s done. What’s the next project?”

Crew stares into the fire, his face half-lit by the flames. “Haven’t thought about it.”

“Come on. There’s got to be something. A shed? A gazebo? A—”

“I don’t know, Foster.” His voice is sharper than usual. “Maybe I’ll just… enjoy it for a while. Is that allowed?”

Silence. The fire crackles.

“Sorry,” Crew mutters. “Long week.”

“No worries, man.” Foster clears his throat. “Who wants s’mores?”

The tension breaks. Sadie produces a bag of marshmallows from somewhere, and we spend the next hour roasting them over the fire, arguing about the correct level of char, making increasingly messy sandwiches of chocolate and graham crackers.

Crew relaxes by degrees. I watch it happen—the set of his shoulders loosening, the furrow between his brows smoothing out. By the time we’re on our second round of s’mores, he’s almost smiling.

“This was a good idea,” he admits quietly when Foster and Sadie are distracted by a debate about whether peanut butter cups are an acceptable s’more substitution.

“I have those sometimes.”

“I know.” He looks at me across the fire, and my breath catches. “Thank you. For pushing. For… all of it.”

“You’re welcome.”

The flames dance between us. The stars twinkle overhead. And for one perfect moment, it feels like everything might be okay.

Then Sadie yawns dramatically and announces she’s going to bed, and the moment shatters.