Page 92 of The Wild Card
“Emmie—”
“I’ve spent my whole life watching my parents be in love. Like, really in love. Disgusting, embarrassing, slow-dancing-in-the-kitchen love. And I want that. I want someone who looks at me like my dad looks at my mom. I want someone who wants to come to Sunday dinner, not someone I have to drag there as part of a business arrangement.”
Sadie is quiet for a moment. “Has it occurred to you that maybe Crew wants those things too? That maybe under all that tactical gear and emotional constipation, there’s a guy who’s just… scared?”
“Scared of what?”
“Of wanting things he doesn’t think he can have.”
I snort. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
“I learned from the best.” She nudges my foot with hers. “I’m just saying. The guy lowered your rent for no reason. He learned your coffee order. He carries you to couches. That’s not exactly cold and unfeeling behavior.”
“That’s just… that’s proximity. Convenience. It doesn’t mean he wants a life with someone.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I grab the throw pillow and scream into it.
When I emerge, Sadie is still smiling that knowing smile. I hate that smile. I hate that she’s known me since freshman year of college and can see through every wall I try to build.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask. “How’s Dave? How’s work? How’s literally anything that isn’t my fake relationship with real benefits?”
“Dave is fine. Work is exhausting. And no, we cannot change the subject.” She shifts to face me fully. “Emmie, I’ve watched you date a lot of guys. I’ve watched you bend yourself into pretzels trying to be what they wanted. I’ve watched you give and give and give until there was nothing left.”
“Sadie—”
“I’ve never seen you look at any of them the way you look at Crew.”
My throat tightens. “How do I look at him?”
“Like he’s something special. Like he’s worth taking care of.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Like maybe he takes care of you too.”
I think about mandatory cuddle time. About the rent he lowered without telling me why. About the way he checks on me when I’m up late writing, how he appears with tea and doesn’t say anything, just sets it down and disappears.
“He does,” I admit quietly. “In his weird, grumpy, uptight way. He takes care of me.”
“And that scares you.”
“Terrifies me.”
“Why?”
I stare at my wine, watching the light catch the deep red. “Because it’s not real. We have an arrangement. An end date. And I’m really, really good at confusing being needed with being wanted.”
Sadie is quiet for a moment. “What if it could be real?”
“It can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t—” I stop. Swallow. “Because this is about avoiding a job transfer, not about me. I’m convenient. I’m useful. That’s not the same as being wanted.”
“Maybe it could be.”
