Page 99 of The Wild Card

“You brought cookies to the briefing last week.”

“She made too many. I was being practical.”

“You hummed in the elevator yesterday.”

“I didn’t—”

“You hummed, Jensen. In public.” Rodriguez shakes his head. “I didn’t even know you knew how to hum.”

I look at my cards. Pair of sevens. Not great. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“We’re being observant.” Staley tosses in a few chips. “You know. Like we’re trained to be. Federal agents and all that.”

“She’s good for you,” Foster says, and there’s something genuine under the teasing. “Whatever’s going on—fake, real, complicated—she’s good for you. You’re lighter.”

Lighter.

I don’t feel lighter. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground crumble beneath my feet, and somehow everyone else sees a man enjoying the view.

“I raise.” I push chips into the center. “And I’m not lighter. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

“Sure.” Foster matches my bet. “That’s why you left work on time three days in a row. That’s why you actually ate lunch at lunch instead of working through it. That’s why—”

“Can we just play cards?”

They exchange looks. The kind of looks that say we’ll drop it for now, but this conversation isn’t over.

The game continues. I win two hands, lose one, fold on a bluff that would’ve cost me fifty bucks. Normal. Routine. My brain should be focused on the cards, on the odds, on the familiar comfort of strategy and calculation.

Instead, I keep thinking about Emmie.

About the way she looked curled up in my hoodie, crying about paper towels and babies and everything she wants out of life. About the way she’d said I think you’d be a good dad like it was obvious, like she couldn’t fathom why I’d think otherwise.

About the way I’d wanted to believe her.

It’s fake, I remind myself. This is fake. She’s playing a role, and so are you, and when the transfer threat is over, this ends. She goes back to being your roommate—or moves out entirely—and you go back to your routine.

The thought makes my chest tight.

“Jensen.” Foster’s voice cuts through. “You in or out?”

I look at my cards. I don’t even remember what I’m holding.

“Out.” I fold, tossing the cards down. “I need a drink.”

I push back from the table and head to Foster’s kitchen. I don’t usually drink. Alcohol and anxiety medication make poor bedfellows, and besides, the thought of being out of control—even slightly, even pleasantly—has always made my skin crawl, which means I rarely indulge.

Tonight, I open Foster’s fridge, bypass the water, and grab a beer.

I twist it off and take a long pull.

Through the doorway, I can hear them talking in low voices. About me, probably. About how different I am, how happy I seem.

They don’t understand.

Because somewhere along the way, I started feeling things. Real things that absolutely fucking terrify me.

I like her.