Page 68 of Wild Card
It hurts my heart that he reads everything as rejection. It’s written all over him.
“Bash…”
“No.” He shakes his head, looking away. “No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
He sighs, sounding tired, and runs a large hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in clear frustration. “What were you going to say, then?”
“I was going to say that I don’t want to be the thing that damns you. It’s not fair.”
His eyes search mine, flitting from left to right. He’s probing for something, and I’m not sure he finds it.
Finally, he steps all the way back, leaving me chilled and missing his nearness.
“No, it’s really not,” he says before turning and walking away from me.
Again.
And me? I do us both a favor: I walk inside and respond to the job offer from the resort in Costa Rica.
I tell them I’ll be ready to start on August first.
The heavy weight of dread presses on my chest before I’ve even opened my eyes.
My run-in with Bash last night kept me awake. Tossing, turning, thinking. Wishing that things were different.
But I know, from the moment my lashes flutter open, I’ll be faced with the reality that nothing is different at all.
The day will start, the sun will rise, everything about Bash and me will feel just as impossible as it did when he left me onthe back porch last night. But now I have an end date in sight, so at least I know there’s a way out.
When I do finally brave lifting my lids, I’m proven right. There’s a heavy stone in my stomach and a weight on my chest that I can’t seem to shake. I know I should head downstairs and be the chipper, happy, go-with-the-flow version of Gwen that everybody expects.
But this morning, I don’t feel like that version of myself.
I’d rather hide—from reality, from the fact that I basically served myself up to Bash on a silver platter. A man who clearly wants me, yet I still backed down.
I spent half the night figuring out whether I turned him away for some deeper reason. Of course, the constant worry that I’m not good enough sat on my shoulder in the dark, sabotaging me as always. But more than that, I realized that if it had been any other man, I wouldn’t have retreated at all. The difference is, I like Bash—Ireallylike Bash. And I don’t want to damn him with my carelessness. Deep down I know this isn’t some meaningless fling.
It scares me. And the thought of losing him scares me too.
Still, I drag myself from bed and start my day, stalling at every turn to avoid what’s waiting downstairs. I take my time, even roll my yoga mat out on the front balcony, hoping a few sun salutations will provide some semblance of balance before I have to face Bash downstairs. And Clyde, in front of whom I’ll have to continue pretending that nothing is off.
I flow through the poses, feeling every stretch, every ache, and every tender spot. I let myself sink into it, not pushing too far, not letting my mind wander too much. Just feeling my body, feeling the air, and feeling all the complicated emotions coursing through me.
Just when I think I’ve found a little corner in my brain that resembles balance, I’m thrown off by a voice that I recognize all too well.
One that sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
Tripp.
Low rumbles of conversation between him and Bash drift from the front door. I catch the odd occasional clear word: “swing by…coffee…come on in.”
Before I know it, the click of the front door closing ends the conversation, making facing what’s downstairs even worse. Eventually, I’ve primped, changed my clothes, read a chapter of my book, and done everything I can think of to avoid making my descent.
Until my phone buzzes with a text.
Clyde: Will you make me those special scrambled eggs? You do them the best.
