Page 24 of Wild Card
I let him talk. I could explain the science of what he’s seeing, but he would just inform me I’m brainwashed and all too happy to believe every lie the government feeds me.
He comes by his moniker “Crazy Clyde” pretty honestly. If anyone were going to wear a tinfoil hat, it would be him. I find a comfort in it, though. The world around me can get turned upside down, and Clyde just…stays the same.
And who knows? Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m the idiot in this equation. Lately, it definitely feels like I am. The butt of every joke. The perpetual runner-up.
I pull up to the hospital’s front entrance, and Clyde ambles out of the truck. Our routine is that he heads inside to get started and I find parking before wandering back in there to keep him company. It’s a rhythm that wouldn’t work in the summer months while I’m constantly away and fighting fires. But it does now.
Something about him doing it all alone, with no one in his corner, doesn’t sit right with me. So I continue to show up for him. I promised I would, and if there’s one thing I am, it’s loyal.
Before he can slam the door, he pauses and turns back. Watery, blue eyes narrow in on me, more perceptive than he has any right to be.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m going to anyway. So listen up. Just because you got horny at fifteen and that kid has half your DNA, it doesn’t mean you need to let him treat you like shit while you constantly beat yourself up over his existence. And for what it’s worth, when doomsday hits, he’s not invited to my bunker. But you are.”
Then, with a firm nod, he slams the door, leaving me feeling a mixture of amusement and—strangely—affection.
Bowling is a success.
For once.
And I suppose that’s why West dragged us all to Rose Hill Reach to celebrate with “the girls” as he calls them. Rosie, Skylar, and Tabby have paired off with my teammates, which firmly makes me the seventh wheel of the friend group.
What started as a casual bowling night with West and Clyde has become a hell of a lot more organized. Over the past several months, we’ve picked up two more regular members—ones I don’t hate. Ford, West’s childhood best friend, and Rhys, a stray that our local bistro owner dropped off one day. Don’t know much about the guy, but I like him a lot. He’s not annoying, and he doesn’t ask a bunch of questions. We’ve struck up a friendship that mostly consists of rolling our eyes at West and exchanging to-the-point text messages.
He reminds me of my friend Emmett, a professional bull rider on the WBRF circuit. He travels a lot, so we don’t see each other often, but when we do, we just pick up where we left off.
Now and then, I get a message from him that says, “You still alive?”I give it a thumbs-up. And then, a couple of months later, I’ll check the standings on the WBRF website and give him shitfor not being number one. I get back a “fuck you,” and I also give that a thumbs-up.
It’s a solid relationship in my books. And much like Emmett, Rhys keeps things simple—something I like about him.
The guys walk in ahead of me but draw up short once they get inside because Doris, the owner of the Reach and longtime bartender, calls out, “Last question. It could be a tiebreaker since we have two teams with the same number of points right now. What is a group of unicorns called? A herd, a flock, a blessing, or a rainbow?”
Ford’s brows knit together as he whispers, “What the fuck?”
“Oh, a blessing. Duh,” West says with an eye roll.
I shoot him a scornful glare, which only makes him laugh.
“You’re just mad you were thinking rainbow, aren’t you?”
I sigh. “You’re an idiot.”
“A happy one,” West volleys with a wink. He bounces on the balls of his feet like a boxer, craning his neck as though he’ll be able to make out the answer from here. “I swear Skylar knows this one. She’s got this. When did they start a trivia night? And why does it have to conflict with bowling? This would be so fun.”
I cross my arms. “This would not be fun.”
“Rosie would kill me if we started crashing girls’ night,” Ford adds.
West doesn’t seem put off at all, though.
Shaking my head, I turn and take in the bar, gazing at the massive floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake. If it weren’t already dark, I’d be able to see the water, the mountains, and the floating dock that serves as a patio in the summer. Inside, the lights are warm and sporting goods plaster the walls for decoration. At each table, groups of four huddle together with a bunch of tiny pencils and small scraps of paper littered between them.
Beside me, Rhys stares at his wife, Tabitha. He’s already an intense guy, but when his gaze lands on her, that intensity ratchets up even further. Just watching them makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into something private.
It hits me with a pang in my stomach. Makes me realize all the domestic milestones I’ve missed out on in my life. Not because I’m averse to them, but because I’ve been thwarted at every turn. To avoid any further rejection, I’ve turned my focus to my career, and now it’s like half my life has gonepoofbefore my eyes.
Watching these boys makes me feel like I’ve missed out on something integral. Something I don’t know that I’ll ever have.
It’s feeling like that ship has sailed.
