Page 136 of The Wild Card

“I’m not—”

“You built her a kitchen.”

“I built me a kitchen.”

“You built a kitchen with a giant window over the sink. You put in a six-burner range when you eat the same four meals on rotation.” He shakes his head. “That kitchen is for her.”

I stare into the embers, jaw tight.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” I say finally. “I ended things. She’s moved on.”

“Has she? Because I didn’t see her bringing a date this weekend.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“And I didn’t see her looking at anyone else the way she looks at you.”

“She doesn’t look at me any particular way.”

“Dude.” Foster laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She tracked you across the yard for a solid fifteen minutes while you were splitting wood. I thought she was going to combust.”

I don’t respond. Can’t respond. Because I noticed it too—the weight of her gaze on my back, the way she quickly looked away whenever I turned around. I told myself I was imagining it. Told myself it was wishful thinking.

“Just talk to her,” Foster says. “Tell her the truth. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She could say no.”

“And what’s happening right now? You’re miserable. She’s miserable. You’re living in the same apartment, circling each other like wounded animals. How is that better than taking a shot?”

I set down my beer harder than necessary. “You done?”

“For now.” He stands, clapping me on the shoulder. “But think about it. This weekend, this place—it could be a fresh start. If you let it.”

He goes inside, leaving me alone with the fire and the stars and the unbearable weight of everything I’m not saying.

* * *

I don’t sleep.

The air mattress is comfortable enough—I’ve slept on worse, and the cabin maintains temperature well now that I’ve sealed all the gaps. But every time I close my eyes, I see her. The way she looked in the firelight. The genuine awe on her face during the tour. The soft “you should be proud” that hit me somewhere I didn’t know I could still feel.

Around 4 AM, I give up and go outside to watch the sunrise.

By the time the others wake up, I’ve already made coffee, started breakfast, and run three miles through the woods to burn off the restless energy crawling under my skin.

It didn’t help.

“Morning!” Emmie emerges onto the porch, stretching, her hair still mussed from sleep. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized t-shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder.

I look away. “Coffee’s ready.”

“You’re an angel.”

I’m not. I’m a man hanging on by a thread. But I pour her a cup anyway and try not to notice the way she wraps her hands around it, the way she hums with pleasure at the first sip.

“I was thinking,” she says. “You mentioned there’s a lake nearby. We should hike out there today. See it.”

“It’s about a mile. The trail’s a little rough.”