Page 30 of Wild Card
Clyde stomps his feet, spraying snow all over the footwell of my truck. My teeth clamp together, but I say nothing. I’m too busy beating myself up for trying to get information about Gwen out of my own son. I know she’s here, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t together. Tripp didn’t confirm or deny shit via text. And not knowing is irritating me.
“Feels good. And as I’ve always said, ‘If it feels good, do it.’”
I glare at Clyde. He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face. I swear he’s like a child sometimes.
“Clyde, that’s not something you’ve always said. That’s a Sloan song.”
He grumbles. “Huh. Maybe it was, ‘If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.’”
I sigh and drop my head to my palm. It’s not worth telling him that’s a Sheryl Crow song.
“Whichever one it is, you should take my advice,” he says. “A private yoga class would be good for you.”
Shaking my head, I pull away and drive him down the mountain. Anxiety builds in my stomach the closer we get to the yoga studio because having to see Gwen here—so close and yet so fucking far away—is its own special brand of torture.
Go look at something purple, Clyde teased yesterday. And all I could think was,I can’t. Not when everything purple reminds me of Gwen’s unusual eye color.
And looking at Gwen makes me want that first date she teased me about, the one where I finally learn her full name. It’s been a year, and try as I might, I can’t shake her. Or what could have been. I blew it when I entered that one number wrong. And the brutal truth is that I can’t act on it with me and Tripp still trying to find solid ground.
The injustice of it all just stokes the constant spark of fury that’s been burning in my chest since everything got turned upside down.
I hate feeling like a victim.
And yet here I am, playing one. Stuck in a rut I don’t know how to get out of. I work on Ford’s property, finishing up the inside of the guest cabins at his recording studio. I bowl on Thursdays and try to have a good time. And even though he irritates me, I help Clyde with medical appointments and ferry him into town.
But every other night, I’m home alone, consumed by what could have been, knowing Gwen from the airport is staying practically down the street. Nothing happened between us, and yet her mere presence eats me up inside.
I’ve never been known for my enthusiasm, but I’ll admit, even by my standards, I’m dark these days.
Clyde and I drive into town in silence, and it’s not until we pull up in front of the yoga studio that Clyde looks my way. “You’re acting like a sullen teenager,” he says plainly. Then he gets out.
I’m annoyed to realize he’s right. And I have no clue how to stop.
So I decide my best course of action is to avoid Gwen at all costs.
Months pass of Gwen and I skirting each other.
Much to my dismay, my friend group has slowly become her friend group. Clyde has become yoga obsessed, and if it wasn’t actually making him more comfortable, I would accuse him of taking private lessons with Gwen to terrorize me. On top of that, Rosie, Skylar, and Tabby have taken to inviting her to group dinners and family get-togethers.
I appreciate how inclusive they are, but I also fucking hate it. It’s like I can’t escape her, no matter how hard I try.
So like the mature adult I am, I stick to the opposite side of the room when we wind up in the same place at the same time. I make conversation with literally anyone other than her, while also listening in on her conversations, desperately lapping up any droplets of information I can get.
Truth be told, I’m listening for any mention of Tripp. On one hand, I hope like hell she dumped his ass. On the other, I hope they’re making it work because Gwen is a catch and that’s what a good dad should want for his son.
But I make a point of never asking. Of making sure I don’t seemtoointerested.
Tripp hasn’t been forthcoming about his personal life, and I haven’t pushed him. Instead, I’ve settled for what he’s been willing to give me.
One bright spot is that he’s taken a sincere interest in my start as a wildland firefighter and how it led me to wildfire aviation—something we’ve ended up talking about during the odd phone call. His questions on that topic are always thoughtful and give me hope that we might still be able to forge a genuine relationship.
Slowly but surely, Tripp Coleman is starting to feel less like a stranger and more like someone I’ll know for the rest of my life.
Still, I think about Gwen. Even though I know I shouldn’t.
My contracting business has been slower than usual, leaving me restless. Between my psychological torment and my hyperfixation on summer—when I can get back up in the air and feel needed for something—I’m in a weird headspace.
Bad as it sounds, I’m desperate for forest-fire season just so I can get out of here. And wishing for natural disasters has to be a new all-time low.
