Page 151 of The Wild Card

Dr. Reyes almost smiles. She’s been my therapist long enough to appreciate my particular brand of deflection. “So what changed?”

What changed? Where do I even start?

“We went to the cabin,” I say slowly. “The one in Oklahoma. I finished it, and she convinced me to have a housewarming. Friends came. We spent the weekend together, and I—” I run a hand through my hair. “I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. That I don’t want her. That I’m not—”

The word sticks in my throat.

“Not what?” Dr. Reyes prompts gently.

“In love with her.”

The words hang in the air. I’ve never said them out loud before—not to Foster, not to Emmie, not even to myself. But sitting here, in this room where I’ve slowly learned to dismantle the walls I built around myself, they feel true.

“That’s significant,” Dr. Reyes says.

“I know.”

“How does it feel? Saying it out loud?”

I consider the question. “Terrifying. But also…” I search for the right word. “Right. It feels right.”

“And the date tonight? What are you hoping for?”

“I want to do it properly this time. Not fake. Not an arrangement. Just me and her, figuring out if this can be real.”

“Do you believe it can be?”

A month ago, I would have said no. A month ago, I was convinced I was too broken, too damaged, too fundamentally incapable of being what she needed. I would have listed all the reasons I couldn’t have this—my OCD, my anxiety, my trauma, my inability to let people in.

“I’m starting to,” I say. “Believe it can be real.”

Dr. Reyes nods slowly. “That’s growth, Crew. Significant growth.”

“It doesn’t feel like growth. It feels like I’m about to jump off a cliff and hope there’s water at the bottom.”

“That’s what vulnerability feels like. You’ve spent your whole life building walls to protect yourself. Choosing to lower them—choosing to let someone in—that takes courage.”

“Or stupidity.”

“Sometimes they look the same.” She leans back in her chair. “Can I share an observation?”

“Could I stop you?”

“No.” Another almost smile. “When you first came to me, you were in survival mode. Every decision, every routine, every relationship—or lack thereof—was designed to minimize risk. To keep you safe from the kind of pain you experienced as a child.”

I nod. This isn’t new information. Still sucks to hear her say it so plainly. The sad, lonely boy became a sad, lonely man.

“But safety isn’t the same as living,” she continues. “And somewhere along the way, I think you started to realize that. The cabin you built. The friendships you’ve maintained. And now, Emmie.” She pauses. “You’re not just surviving anymore, Crew. You’re choosing to live. That’s not nothing.”

I stare at the carpet, throat tight.

“The fear won’t go away,” Dr. Reyes says. “Not completely. You’ll still have moments where your brain tells you to run, to protect yourself, to push people away before they can leave. But you have tools now. Strategies. And more importantly, you have evidence that you can do hard things and come out the other side.”

“Evidence?”

“The cabin. Your career. Two years of consistent therapy.” She holds my gaze. “You’re not the same person who walked into this office, Crew. You’ve done the work. You’ve earned the right to want things.”

Wanting things is dangerous. The old thought surfaces automatically—a reflex, a scar that never fully healed.