Page 15 of Wild Card

The entire week has left me feeling low.

Until Gwen sat her fine ass in the chair across from me and made herself at home.

She made me feel better.

But now, her lack of response gnaws at me, leaving a pit in my stomach and a sour mood I can’t seem to shake.

I don’t feel like hashing this out with West right now. I’m not ready for his brand of unshakeable positivity. So I text him back, and I lie.

Bash: It was the best.

CHAPTER SIX

BASH

Bash: Hey, Gwen. It’s Bash. We drank shitty margaritas together two weeks ago. I sent a text when I got home, but I don’t think it went through.

Eight months later…

I eye Gwen’s contact in my phone as I sit at the Calgary airport. It’s been eight months since that freak November snowstorm. Thirty-two weeks since I sent the first text to her. Thirty weeks since I sent that follow-up. And I still come back to our very one-sided chat.

I look over the messages for what feels like the millionth time. All marked asdelivered.

Since she didn’t respond to either, sending another now just seems pathetic. The answer is probably to read between the lines. And with the way my life has been turned upside down in the last year, I’m not sure I need to volunteer myself for a full-on rejection. I’m already grappling with heavy feelings of inadequacy.

Making a hot twenty-seven-year-old spell out that she’s avoiding me might just be my killing blow.

So I decide to keep it simple—do my mental health a favor. She ghosted me, and I don’t need to be the creepy dude who can’t let it go.

Simple.

Still, it stings.

I put my phone away and stare at the moving walkway at the end of the terminal.

And I think of her.

I think of that night.

She wasn’t wrong about it becoming a core memory. I should be focused on heading to my newfound son’s birthday party but, fuck, if she’s not perfectly burned into my mind.

“Cecilia.” I force my lips into a smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a grimace. I’m trying not to hate the woman standing in front of me.

But it’s fucking hard.

Which is probably why my “nice to see you” sounds like code foryou’re a piece of shit. This is the second time I’ve seen her, and she’s been nothing but cool, distant, and awkward. Not an explanation or an apology as far as the eye can see.

Her lips are pursed, and it feels like she’s looking everywhere butatme. Beyond me to the road, down at the rosebush beside her front door.

Coward.

“Yes, well…” Her hand floats up to her throat, a diamond the size of a large grape adorning her finger. “You know, Tripp is a good boy. He wanted you here. And what the birthday boy wants, the birthday boy gets.” She smiles, but it’s pinched, like she finds the sight of me distasteful.

I glare back at her, running my tongue over my teeth. At least we have that in common. Because I find the sight of her distasteful too. I thought that this whole thing might feel easiertoday, but it doesn’t. I’ve hadmonthsto stew in my bitterness. It’s thick in my chest and tight in my jaw.

I don’t know how a person is supposed to feel after finding out they have an adult son whose existence was intentionally kept from them.

Some parts of me are happy. I’m trying, and to his credit, Tripp is trying too. As in, we exchange the odd text. Usually, it’s me congratulating him on his game—because I watch all of them now. Hell, I even bought a jersey with his name on it. I guess I’m a fan now. Even if I’m not a fan of his mother.