Page 72 of The Wild Card

“There have been a few car chases.”

“The one with the helicopter.”

Robert sets down his fork. “There was a helicopter?”

I tell them—not the classified parts, but enough. I recount the pursuit that went wrong, the suspect who tried to flee on the highway, and the helicopter support that helped us box him in. I present it the way I’d write it in a report: facts, sequence of events, outcome.

They’re staring at me like I just said I wrestled a bear.

“Your boyfriend is a badass, Em,” Gavin finally says, a slight grin tugging at his lips.

Emmie beams—actually beams, as if she’s proud of me, like I’m something worth being proud of.

“I know,” she replies.

Something cracks open in my chest. I don’t know how to handle it, so I take a bite of mashed potatoes and pretend I’m fine.

* * *

After dinner, Linda refuses to let me help clean up. “You’re a guest. Guests don’t do dishes.”

“I don’t mind—”

“Go.” She points to the living room. “Robert wants to show you something in the garage anyway. Go. Bond.”

Robert’s “something” turns out to be a 1969 Camaro he’s been restoring for the past five years. We stand in his garage, surrounded by tools and car parts, as he walks me through every modification, every challenge, every small victory.

I don’t know much about cars, but I know about projects—about building something with your hands and the patience it takes to make something whole.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it.

“She’s a pain in my ass,” he replies, but he’s smiling. “You ever work on cars?”

“A little, not really. But I’d like to learn.”

He looks at me for a long moment and then nods, as if I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.

“Come back next Sunday. I’ll teach you a few things.”

“I’d like that.”

When we walk back inside, Emmie is in the kitchen with her mom, drying dishes while Linda washes. They’re laughing about something, and Emmie’s got a dish towel over her shoulder and soap suds on her wrist.

She looks up when I enter and smiles.

In that moment, I realize—with a clarity that knocks the breath out of me—that I want this.

Not just her. This. The loud dinners, the family photos, the garage projects, and the Sunday visits. A life full of people who show up for each other—who hug without warning, pile food on your plate, and argue about hockey.

I’ve never wanted anything like this before.

I didn’t know I was allowed to.

* * *

The drive home is quiet.

Emmie’s got her feet tucked under her, her head against the window, smiling to herself.