Page 152 of The Wild Card

But maybe Dr. Reyes is right. Maybe I’ve spent so long protecting myself from loss that I forgot to consider what I might gain.

“What if I mess it up?” The question comes out smaller than I intend.

“Then you mess it up. And you learn. And you try again.” She tilts her head. “What would you tell the version of yourself who aged out of foster care at eighteen? The one who had nothing and no one?”

I think about that kid. Angry. Scared. Convinced that he was fundamentally unlovable, that something was broken inside him that could never be fixed.

“I’d tell him it gets better,” I say quietly. “That someday he’ll have an apartment. A job he’s good at. And people who give a shit about him.” I swallow hard. “I’d tell him he’s not as alone as he thinks.”

“And what would you tell him about love?”

The question lands somewhere deep.

“I’d tell him—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “I’d tell him that he deserves it. Even if he doesn’t believe it yet. Even if it takes him thirty years to figure out how to accept it.”

Dr. Reyes is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is gentle. “So why can’t you tell yourself that now?”

I don’t have an answer.

Or maybe I do, and I’m just not ready to say it out loud. Shit, there’s something in my damn eye. I blink hard and inhale sharply.

“Crew.” She leans forward. “You’ve spent your whole life believing you’re not worthy of the things other people have. A home. A family. Love. But beliefs aren’t facts. They’re just stories we tell ourselves—and stories can be rewritten.”

I think about Emmie. The way she looks at me like I’m worth looking at. The way she stayed, even when I pushed her away. The way she makes me want to be better—not because I’m not enough, but because she makes me believe I could be more.

“I want to rewrite it,” I admit. “I want to believe I can have this.”

“Then start there. Start with wanting it.” Dr. Reyes smiles—a real smile this time. “And see where it takes you.”

I leave her office feeling lighter than I have in months.

The fear is still there—it probably always will be. The self-doubt and anxiety. But underneath it, something else. Something that feels suspiciously like hope.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

First Date (For Real)

Crew

I’ve planned tactical operations with less precision than this date.

The self-defense lesson is booked—private room at the Bureau gym, 7:15 PM. I called in a favor from Rodriguez to make it happen. Dinner reservation at 8 at a farm-to-table place Emmie mentioned once, months ago, when she was testing recipes and complaining about the quality of local ingredients. She probably doesn’t remember saying it. I remember everything.

And after dinner—the rooftop. I spent my lunch break hauling blankets and pillows up there, along with a bottle of wine I had to Google to make sure was good, and a Bluetooth speaker loaded with a playlist I made. Yes, I made a playlist. Foster would never let me live it down if he knew.

At 6:45, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and try to remember how to breathe.

I’m wearing dark jeans, a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Casual but intentional. I shaved. I put on cologne for the first time in months—something I bought years ago and never used because who was I trying to impress?

Her. I was always waiting for her.

Murphy watches from the doorway, tail flicking with judgment.

“Don’t start,” I tell him.

He meows.

“I know what I’m doing.”