Page 43 of The Wild Card

Sadie is quiet for a moment. “But he let you in.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told you about the therapy. About his anxiety. The foster care stuff.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “That’s not nothing, Em. He trusted you with the real stuff.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way.

“He also tricked me into a fake dating contract,” I point out.

“True. That was shady as hell.” She shrugs. “But also kind of genius? In a desperate, emotionally constipated way?”

“Are you defending him now?”

“I’m just saying he’s clearly not good at feelings. But he’s trying. Maybe that should count for something.” She steps back, surveying the dress one more time. “Okay, this is the one. You’re wearing this. No arguments.”

I look at myself again. The woman in the mirror looks confident and put-together—like someone who could walk into a room full of federal agents and pretend to be in love with a man she barely knows.

Fake it ‘til you make it, I guess.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, turning to face Sadie.

“Always.”

“How do you know when something’s real? Like, if you’re pretending to have feelings for someone, how do you know when you stop pretending?”

She considers this, leaning against the closet doorframe. “I think… if you have to ask, it’s probably already real. At least a little.”

That’s not the answer I was hoping for.

“Great,” I mutter. “That’s super helpful.”

“I try.” She grins. “Now take that off before you wrinkle it, and tell me more about the touching practice. Is he just going to hold your hand? Put his arm around you? What exactly are we working with here?”

“I don’t know. He said we’d start tomorrow. Build up to being comfortable by Saturday.”

“Build up.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “That sounds promising.”

“It sounds terrifying.”

“Same thing, sometimes.” She helps me unzip the dress. “You like him, don’t you?”

I step out of the fabric and reach for my jeans, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know what I feel. It’s only been a week.”

I think about Crew in his kitchen, allowing himself to enjoy crab rangoon. Crew at happy hour, forgetting he was supposed to offer me a drink until Foster elbowed him. Crew standing in his doorway at midnight, holding out a contract like a peace offering, his ears turning pink when I stared at his chest.

He’s awkward and intense and has more walls than a medieval fortress.

But he’s also kind in ways he doesn’t seem to notice. Honest in ways that catch me off guard. And when he looks at me—really looks—I feel like he’s seeing something no one else does.

“Maybe,” I say finally. “Maybe I like him a little.”

Sadie’s smile is insufferably smug. “I knew it.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“You’re taking the dress.”

“I’m taking the dress and leaving.”