Page 122 of Wild Card
I’ve never been overly concerned about mine and Gwen’s age difference, but suddenly I’m wondering: Is it too much? Am I too old? Am I tying her down by asking her to stay? Is she just going to leave? Maybe she’d be happier somewhere else? Or with someone else? Someone like Tripp?
Maybe, like always, I’ll be the second choice.
I usually try not to give these thoughts too much credence. I know that they’re pitiful and insecure. They make me seem like a more self-loathing sort of person than I want to be. But every now and then, when I’m tired and stressed, they crop up.
I watch them for a beat. The hug isn’t a quick side squeeze; it’s definitely got more meaning than that. When they pull back, Gwen’s hands rest on his shoulders as she gives him a firm and affectionate push.
Hesmiles.
Their lips are moving, but I don’t know what they’re saying. I don’t think that I want to. Suddenly, all I want to do is be home,and it doesn’t matter who’s there because I think what I need is to be alone.
When I get back to the house and check the calendar, I realize Clyde is at one of his occupational therapy appointments, which is probably what brought Gwen into town. Distractedly, I put my laundry on, tidy up around my room, and just generally try to keep myself busy so that my thoughts don’t spiral too far into a pit of irrational despair. I know sleep would probably give me a good dose of perspective, but I don’t let myself relax.
I’m better than this. I know I am. But after being kicked while I’m down so many times, it’s just a little too easy to believe I might not be better than this after all.
When Gwen and Clyde do finally come through the front door, I’m an agitated mess. They’re chatting away happily, and I feel like I’m storming around with a dark cloud looming over me. I make my way downstairs to see them, and they both brighten at my presence.
It should make me happy, but my head replays the way Tripp smiled at Gwen, and all I can muster is a frown in their direction.
Gwen must pick up on my body language or, knowing her, just my energy. That smile drops off her face, and her head tilts. But she says nothing other than, “I’m so glad you’re back. I had no idea you were coming so soon. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I straighten my shoulders, feeling them tense as I do. Anxiety lances through me. She had no idea I was coming back so soon, which is why she was out with Tripp.
Get your shit together, Rousseau.
I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to accuse her of those things, so I give them a very dry “Surprise!”
“Oh boy,” Clyde grumbles. “Trouble in paradise. I’m getting the fuck out of here.” He moves past me with a slap on the shoulder and then disappears down the hallway.
Gwen watches with a pensive expression on her face. “Everything okay?” She doesn’t come nearer, clearly sensing that something is off.
I shrug, moving into the kitchen to busy myself because I’m not really sure how to broach this conversation with her. It makes me realize how fucking terrible I am at talking about my feelings.
But then I realize that with her, it hasn’t ever been a problem. I told her about how I was feeling after the last fire. We’ve talked about Tripp, and we’ve talked about Clyde. Hell, one of those first nights on the patio, I told her about how badly I wanted to be a dad and the real reason that I built this house—which I’ve never told anyone before.
The fact I don’t want to talk to her about my feelings right now is only further proof that my head isn’t right. That I’m lashing out because I’m tired and overwhelmed.That’swhy I’m trying to walk away from this conversation.
She follows me into the kitchen, calling me on avoiding her immediately. “Bash, I know this is new and very, very tenuous. I get it, I do. But if you’re going to turn into a boulder every time that something is a little bit wrong, it’s going to make things really difficult. I know we left on awkward, complicated terms and that you’ve been busy at work, and I totally respect that. But you gotta talk to me.”
I walk farther into the kitchen before turning and propping my hands on the island counter across from her. I respect her request for me to tell her what’s wrong, so with a heavy sigh, I lift my gaze to meet hers. “I saw you and Tripp out together today.”
She sucks in a deep breath through her nose, nodding her head as she releases it. We square off across the top of the island. “Yes, I was out with Tripp today. I would never hide that from you.”
She doesn’t deny it, and based on the way she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, she doesn’t feel the least bit guilty about it either.
“Why?” I ask. “Because I can’t think of a single good reason why you’d need to spend time with him, especially after the way he spoke to you. I’m still fucking furious with him for that. What his mom did is awful, but the way he spoke to you is borderline unforgivable and if I never?—”
“If you never what? If you never speak to him again, you’ll be fine with that?”
I blink once, shocked by the sternness in her voice.
“You’ll just not talk to him anymore? Just pretend he doesn’t exist? You and I are just gonna skip off into the sunset like none of this shit ever happened? I wastalkingto him. Trying to explain things in a respectful way. Jesus Christ, Bash. Put yourself in his shoes for a minute.”
I swallow. It’s like she’s read my mind, my internal acknowledgment that I really don’t like talking about these things. Avoiding them is so much easier.
“Bash, you and me”—she points between us—“we’re not going to work if you can’t make amends with Tripp.”
I rear back at that, the finality of it hitting me hard across the face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
