Page 47 of Wild Card
Clyde grumbled about it when I returned, but I just told him, “We’re taking good care of this kidney because no one else likes you enough to give you one.”
He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. Funny, ornery old man that he is.
Now I crack a window and get to work preparing a healthy meal—whether Clyde approves or not.
After months in a small studio apartment, it feels good to spread out over the butcher-block countertops. Light trickles in through the expansive windows and makes the gold hardware on the green cabinets shimmer. My bare feet are warm on the wide floorboards and I feel alarmingly at ease in the space even though it’s all new to me.
Bash and I cross paths briefly, wordlessly preparing food side by side without him so much as sparing me a sideways glance.
I wish I could say the same for myself. Instead, I find myself fixating on the smell of him, willing him to look my way. To say something. To throw all that loyalty and commitment that I admire about him out the fucking window and cross a line.
I daydream about it. Him, swiping all the chopped vegetables off the counter and lifting me onto it. Him, taking me out onto that balcony and bending me over the railing. Waiting untilClyde’s asleep and then sneaking into my room next to his. Covering my mouth with his hand to keep me quiet while he makes me come.
But my dreams aren’t meant to come true.
Because Bash isn’t that guy.
His morals barely let himlookat me. And maybe I should be more concerned about my own morals because, when he retreats upstairs with his sandwich while I finish making chicken noodle soup for Clyde, I’m downright disappointed.
Dinner at the long dining room table feels strange knowing Bash is one floor above us all alone. I’m sure I don’t imagine the way the Clyde keeps checking the stairs, as though expecting to see Bash relent and join us.
After we eat, I clean Clyde’s incision and tuck him in, rolling my eyes when he tells me to stop hovering because I’m not his mother.
I think it’s because Clyde doesn’t make demands of me that taking care of him is so satisfying. Not once has he asked me when I plan to settle down, find a steady job, or start a family. I grew up with this feeling of never being good enough, never trying hard enough. Neverquitefitting in. I’m sure the unrelenting questions were my dad’s way of motivating me—it was the drill sergeant in him—but they only stifled me.
I was—and still am—too soft to hold up under that brand of motivation. It wasn’t until I got away, saw the world, found yoga that I felt like I might actually be good at something. That I discovered passion. That I learned to love my body. That I found helping others is what fulfills me.
It’s with those thoughts in mind that I shut the house down. I double-check the locked doors and turn off almost all the lights— I leave a few on just in case Clyde needs to get up, something he assured me he doesn’t need any help with—before I head upstairs. I look back over the living room, illuminated by theglow of the outdoor lights. Vaulted wood panel ceilings make the room feel big but not sterile. And the warm white walls make it feel airy but still rustic.
I turn away with a soft smile touching my lips. I can so perfectly imagine Bash building this place. It’s soothing and masculine and brimming with thoughtful touches—just like him.
Upstairs, I enter my room and let out a dreamy sigh. My room is beautiful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to go enjoy the space. Be still. Stare at the lake. Meditate. Stretch.
The rounded bay window with a cushioned bench makes this the bedroom of my childhood dreams. A queen-size memory-foam bed—with a door just to the right that opens to a small balcony overlooking the lake—makes this the bedroom of my adult dreams. And after months of winter spent in the apartment above the yoga studio with zero outdoor living space, that balcony is where I want to be.
It’s still early spring in the mountains, so I grab a fleece, a pair of slouchy wool socks, and my yoga mat. I slip from my room, shutting the door quietly behind me.
The dead bolt on the outside of the door catches my attention. It gets the wheels in my head turning, speculating on why Bash would possibly want to keep someone lockedinsidethe room. Too many crime podcasts filter into my thoughts, but I shake them away, telling myself to quit being so distracted.
But that proves to be impossible when I notice Bash mere feet away. He’s sitting out in front of his room. And until I fully stepped outside just now, I hadn’t realized the balcony runs the full width of the house.
He doesn’t look my way. Instead, he tips his head back against the Adirondack chair, letting out a deeply tired sigh. It’s dark, but the outdoor sconces drench the deck in a warm glow. Straight ahead of us, the lake moves in soft, undulating waves.The soothing, steady sound of it lapping against the rocky shore calls to me.
But I know when I’m not wanted somewhere, so I begin to turn away, whispering a parting, “Sorry. I’ll go back inside.”
I see his eyes close as he subtly shakes his head. “No. It’s fine. I’ll go.”
“That seems silly. It’s your house. I’m intruding. I can meditate inside just as easily.”
“Gwen. Clyde argues with me enough as it is. Can you just…not?”
I swallow at that. Everything about Bash right now screams exhaustion, and guilt nips at me for interrupting his quiet moment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
His head rolls along the back of the chair and his dark eyes land on me. I try not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. “You don’t bother me, Gwen.”
I give him my best disbelieving look. I don’t want to argue, but I also don’t buy it.
He just sighs, turning to stare back at the water. “Not in the way you think.”
