Page 32 of Wild Card

He takes a swig and glances around. “You heard me. Don’t make a scene—she’s probably watching. Reporting.”

“Clyde, you say the wildest stuff sometimes. I don’t even know where you come up with it. What would she report?”

He grins. “That you’d miss me if I died and that you desperately want to save your best friend’s life.”

My eyes roll.Best friend.“No kidney for you. I take it back.”

“I’ll talk to Doris. She can arrange to have it harvested against your will.”

“You would too,” I grumble.

Clyde just cackles, all raspy and amused. “You’re so obnoxiously loyal, you’d still be my friend if I did.”

I scoff at the idea. I’m notthatloyal.

Still, I stay and have a second (and third) beer with the man while we guess what different patrons do for a living.

And the next day, through the haze of too many green beers, I call my doctor to schedule a donor evaluation.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GWEN

Clyde lies on his back with his legs up against the wall. And I stand above him, watching his chest rise and fall, trying to ignore the light rasp in his breathing. It makes the thought of leaving him even harder.

Because Iamconsidering leaving.

Kira, the studio owner, contacted me over the weekend to let me know she’d need her apartment back by the end of the month. She offered little explanation, just something about a family member needing a place to stay. To me, it sounded far-fetched. Especially when she told me she wanted me to keep teaching.

Now, I have to find a new place to live—and rent (and pay rent for) —which is less than ideal for my savings plan. But I didn’t tell her that.

I’ve buried my anxiety over the upheaval, not ready to leave yet. I’ll figure something out. I always do.

“So now we’ll take one regular breath in through your nose and then another quick one at the top of that. Fill your lungs as full as possible before you slowly breathe out through your mouth.”

Trying not to stare at the increasingly yellow tinge to his body, I demonstrate the breath a few times before letting Clyde take over breathing on his own.

Over the past several months, I’ve spent a lot of time with the man. It’s too remote where he lives. The roads are bad. And the hospital is too far away for comfort. And he needs too much help with day-to-day tasks.

Which is why I was both grateful and relieved when he offered to hire me to help around his house. Now I spend a couple of days a week up on the mountain—meal prepping, shoveling snow, and doing general chores that have become harder for him as his kidneys weaken.

In all honesty, spending time with Clyde fills something in me that I didn’t realize I’ve been missing. The way he calls to me when I enter his home—That you, kiddo?in his raspy voice—makes me smile every time.

He always asks about my yoga classes and how they’re going. Always checks if I’ve been sleeping well and eating properly. He always lights up when I walk in, and he always, always listens when I speak.

Yes, Clyde pays me for my time, but if he stopped, I’d continue to show up. Hell, I’ve even offered to do it for free, which, in hindsight, I think offended him. He’d hobbled away and come back with a handful of cash, shoving it at me brusquely. Then he looked me straight in the eye and told me to never work for free. To never sell myself short or question my value.

I cried in my truck after that and never brought it up again.

So we keep doing our regular private classes for cash payment. Bash drops him off at the studio’s front door in the big black Denali pickup truck he drives, and I try not to crane my neck too far, straining for the smallest glimpse of him. He never comes inside, but he never fails to get Clyde here on time.He also never fails to get Clyde to his doctor’s appointments. He just…never fails to show up for the man,period.

Between the two of us, Clyde gets a daily check-in. Bash might act like an awkward dickhead around me, but I admire the relationship he and Clyde share. It’s heartwarming, endearing, and—unfortunately for me—I find his reliability and loyalty to be incredibly attractive.

We don’t even have to see or speak to each other for Sebastian Rousseau to occupy space in my mind. My meditation practice is a struggle, constantly interrupted by flashes of surly brows, a square jaw rough with stubble, and big, calloused hands.

When Clyde’s breathing transforms into a coughing fit, I drop to the ground beside him, gently placing my palm on his sternum. Because after months spent with the funny, quirky old man, I have grown attached to him. And watching him deteriorate is, well… It’s brutal.

“Soften your chest,” I murmur. “It will pass.”