Page 63 of The Wild Card

I called her my girlfriend. Without hesitation. Without the mental air quotes.

Emmie’s eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Like we both just noticed the line we’ve crossed without meaning to.

“Well,” Margaret says, oblivious to the moment, “at least promise you’ll give me this recipe.”

“I’ll do you one better.” Emmie pulls out her phone. “I’ll send you the whole chapter when the book comes out. You’ll be in the acknowledgments.”

“I’d love that.”

The conversation flows easily after that—Margaret’s prosecutor stories, Daniels’s dry commentary, Emmie’s animated tales of cookbook disasters. I mostly listen, adding a comment here and there, but I’m not anxious about the silence. Not trying to fill it. I’m just… present. Comfortable.

This is what normal feels like, I realize. Huh. Who knew?

After dinner, Emmie brings out the lava cake—which did not collapse—and we move to the living room with coffee and dessert. Margaret and Daniels take the loveseat, while Emmie and I end up on the couch, pressed together because Murphy has claimed the other cushion and refuses to move.

“Your cat is a menace,” Daniels observes.

“He’s not technically my cat.”

“He lives here. He’s your cat.”

Murphy yawns, stretches, and curls into a tighter ball, clearly unbothered by the accusation.

Emmie leans into me, her shoulder against my arm, and I drape my hand over her knee without thinking. Her skin is warm through the fabric of her dress. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she shifts closer.

“So,” Margaret says, her eyes bright with curiosity, “how did you two actually get together? I know you said you were roommates first, but there has to be more to the story.”

Emmie and I exchange a look.

“It’s, um.” She laughs, a little nervous. “Kind of a funny story, actually.”

“I put out an ad for a roommate,” I say. “She answered it.”

“And?”

“And she showed up with cookies.” I look at Emmie, remembering that first day—the chaos of her, the way she’d talked a mile a minute, dropped her keys, and somehow charmed me anyway. “Chocolate chip. Said she stress-baked.”

“I was so nervous,” Emmie admits. “He was so… intense. All these questions about noise levels and cleaning schedules. I thought for sure he was going to reject me.”

“But he didn’t,” Margaret prompts.

“He didn’t.” Emmie’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. “And then we just… started spending time together. Cooking. Talking. Watching movies.”

“She made me try Chinese food,” I add. “And crab rangoon.”

“He’d never had crab rangoon! Can you believe that?”

Margaret laughs. “I believe it. This man lived on protein shakes and sadness before you came along.”

“Hey,” I protest, but there’s no heat in it.

“It’s true, and you know it.” Emmie squeezes my hand. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and…” She shrugs. “Here we are.”

Here we are.

Sitting on my couch, holding hands, telling a story that’s half true and half fiction. Except the true parts feel truer than anything I’ve ever said, and the fiction parts don’t feel like lies anymore.

They feel like wishes.