Page 159 of The Wild Card

I squint. He’s right—the lights are moving.

“Well,” I say. “At least we’re equally incompetent.”

He laughs, and I feel it vibrate through me where our shoulders are pressed together.

“What else don’t you know?” he asks. “I feel like I should catalogue your weaknesses.”

“For tactical purposes?”

“Obviously.”

I think about it. “I can’t parallel park. Like, at all. I’ve given up. I just find spots I can pull through.”

He chuckles. “That’s actually terrifying.”

“I know,” I agree, taking another sip of wine. “I’m surprised I still have side mirrors.”

“What else?” he prompts, watching me with sort of a dreamy half-lidded expression on his face.

“I kill every plant I’ve ever owned. I have a black thumb. It’s tragic, really, because I love the idea of plants. I just can’t keep them alive.”

“The succulent in your room?”

“Oh, it’s so fake.”

He’s laughing again, his chest shaking beneath my cheek.

“What about you?” I ask. “What are your secret incompetencies?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Liar.”

“I’m a highly trained federal agent. We don’t have weaknesses.”

I prop myself up to look at him. “Crew Jensen. Tell me something you’re bad at.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking.

“Dancing,” he finally admits. “I can’t dance. At all. I have no rhythm.”

“None?”

“None. It’s like my body doesn’t understand the concept of moving to music.”

“Have you tried?”

“Once. At a work function. Foster still brings it up.”

“What happened?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Crew.”

He sighs. “I stepped on my partner’s foot so hard she had to go to urgent care. Possible fracture.”

I clap a hand over my mouth. “No.”