Page 127 of Wild Card
“All right.” Doris’s voice fills the bar. “The question was:What is the driest place on earth?The answer is the Atacama Desert—Team Four, you got it right. But I would like to give an honorable mention to Tabitha Garrison for submittingTerence’s bedas the answer for Team Two.”
Our entire table bursts out laughing. None of us knew the proper answer, so we’d agreed to ragging on the perennial town douchebag as our answer.
Totally worth it. If only to hear Doris’s raspy cackle.
I feel my mood improve. It’s impossible to watch these women’s antics and not feel brighter. It’s equally impossible to spend time around Doris without being amused.
Before the next round starts, Rosie gets up to go to the bathroom, and when she returns, her forehead is creased with worry, her blue eyes full of concern.
She slides into the booth and drops her voice low. “Okay, I know we’re not supposed to be on our phones during trivia, but I checked mine in the bathroom and a huge fire has broken out on the back side of the mountain. Skylar, West’s and Ford’s properties are both under evacuation alert.” Her gaze slides to me. “And, Gwen, Clyde’s house is under evacuationorder. It sounds like all buildings back in the trees are at risk.”
Any lingering amusement I felt snaps, replaced by a jolt of icy dread.
“What?” My voice is thin, matching the shock I feel.
Rosie nods grimly. “Yeah, Bash is on his way to wherever firefighters go, and West is gone to figure out a way to evacuate all the horses off his property.”
Skylar’s eyes widen in horror, her dainty hand flying up to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “I have to go. I have to go help him. He’s probably freaking out.”
Tabby nods, blinking but not giving much away. She’s always the practical, stoic one of the group, and in this moment she’s no different.
“Okay, let’s all go. I’m going to make sure the restaurant is open to evacuees for coffee and snacks and a place to sit, even if it’s not as good as their own bed. At least it’s somewhere safe to come together.”
With that, we all stand at once, heads ducked low as we scurry out of the bar, missing out on the final rounds of trivia night. Doris catches us on our way out, grabbing Rosie by the wrist to stop her.
Her voice drops to a serious whisper. “You girls be careful out there.” We nod in unison. “But, Rosie Belmont, if I catch you on your phone again during trivia night, I will ban you for life.”
Rosie cracks a smile, a dry laugh, lurching from her throat. “You got yourself a deal, Doris.”
We turn to leave again, but Doris isn’t done. “And if you run into any hot firefighters out there in need of a place to rest their weary bones, you tell them that food and drinks are on me.”
I chuckle at Doris’s antics as we leave, but it’s fleeting. The heavy weight of what’s happening settles in my chest, adding another layer to what had already felt—to me, anyway—like a monumentally confusing night.
When I rush through the front door of Bash’s lakefront home, I’m immediately searching for Clyde. I find him on the deck, settled in an Adirondack chair, smoking a joint. Quietly, I pad out the back door and fold myself into the seat next to him.
I reach across, my fingers curling around his hand where it rests against the arm of the chair. My lips part, ready to sayeverything will be okay, but I stop. Because I don’t know that. I love Clyde too much to lie to him. And truthfully, it feels like I would be diminishing whatever turmoil he’s feeling at this moment if I say something.
So I sit with him in silence, holding his weathered hand while he takes the odd puff. We both look out at the lake, the waves smashing against the shoreline as the wind whips across the water. I don’t know if it’s in my head, but I swear I can hear the faint crackle of flames spilling through the valley.
What isn’t in my head is the smell of smoke, drowning out the fragrant scent of pine. It’s unsettling to think that mere hours ago, my confrontation with Bash seemed like the most important thing in the world.
But now, sitting here with a man who’s been more of a father to me in the last six months than my own father has been in my entire life, none of that feels like it matters.
When he finally stabs out the butt of his joint and drops it into the dregs of his water glass, I ask, “Want to do some yoga?”
He nods, solemn and steady. I push to standing and retrieve our mats, laying them out on the porch where we can look at the lake and seek a sliver of peace.
We both begin in a kneeling position, and I smile inwardly, watching how freely he moves compared to when we started together. It fills me with a deep satisfaction. I want to do something calming with him, to help keep our nervous systems regulated.
But then, like a hammer shattering a mirror, his raspy voice breaks the calm. “Everything from my Maya is in that house.”
If I thought my heart was broken earlier, I realize now that it was only cracked. Because hearing Clyde’s voice tremble,knowing he might lose every piece of his late wife, breaks it entirely.
“I’m so sorry” is my quiet reply.
He just nods, sniffing as he looks away, as if he’s shielding me from his grief.
We flow through some moon salutations slowly, thoughtfully, leaning on the foundation of our friendship—unlikely as we may be.
