Page 45 of Wild Card

“That’s rich,” he grumbles. “We all know I’m only here because you’re a big, broody, dutiful motherfucker.”

I sigh. He’s not wrong. I am those things. In fact, I pride myself on being dutiful—reliable. But with Clyde, it’s more than that. I care about him.

I mean, I haven’t told him that. But I gave him my fucking kidney. What more does he want? A tattoo across my forehead?

“Clyde, if I didn’t want you to live with me while you recover, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Heartwarming,” he mumbles, turning his head to look out the window. “You’re just so nice.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Gwen’s head taking on a considering tilt. “Bash isn’t nice?—”

“This is going to be a long couple of months,” I mutter as I turn off the main drag onto the quiet lakeside road that leads toward my house.

Gwen’s head snaps in my direction. “If you’d let me finish, you wouldn’t have to be having a big cry over an incomplete sentence.”

My jaw works. “Comment stands.”

She turns in her seat so she can look back at Clyde. “What I was about to say is that Bash isn’t nice—he’s kind. The two are not the same.”

I watch in the mirror as squints at her. He fuckin’ hates being told he’s wrong. It’s the source of most of our disagreements. “I’m pretty sure those two words are synonyms, Gwen.”

She shrugs. “Perhaps. But I still think they’re different. You don’t have to agree.” Then she turns back and faces the front, ending the conversation without giving him the satisfaction of an argument. I could learn a thing or two from her.

Silence stretches in the truck, and I can see Clyde’s lips working, twisting and scrunching like he’s chewing that over. Maybe even waiting for her to say something. Eventually, her lack of engagement pushes him to break.

“How do you think they’re different?”

A ghost of a smile dances over her face, barely perceptible before it disappears. She doesn’t turn around this time—instead, I feel her gaze on my profile.

“Well, I think being nice has more to do with behaving in a way that’s driven by social expectations. Whereas being kind is behaving in a way that’s driven by a concern for other people’s well-being. And the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. I’d be rather wary of someone who is nice but not kind.”

I fight the urge to squirm in my seat as her words hang in the cab of my truck. It’s a compliment, but I don’t know what to do with it. So I keep my eyes on the road, seeing my driveway ahead like a portal to freedom and escape from being stuck in a small space with these two.

“Ah,” Clyde drawls, as though understanding is dawning on him in some grand fashion. Then, he grins at me in the mirror, and I just know he’s about to toss a grenade and metaphorically run away giggling. “So it’s like how he’s being generally notniceto you in an attempt to bekindto his son?”

My foot instinctively taps the brake in shock as I choke on absolutely nothing. The truck jerks and then carries on as I cough to clear my throat.

Over the sound of Gwen laughing.

Head thrown back, hand on her full chest,laughing.

Yeah, this is definitely going to be a long couple of months.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

GWEN

“Okay, how’s that?” I ask as I release the button that adjusts the angle of the mattress.

Clyde shifts, wincing ever so slightly as he tries to get comfortable on the home-care bed that’s been set up for him. “My lower back is still sore from lying in the same goddamn position all the time. I knew they shouldn’t have taken me off the morphine.”

Bash scoffs, his shoulder propped against the doorframe of Clyde’s temporary bedroom. “Funny how a little pain brought you around to the merits of modern medicine so quickly.”

I shoot him a glare. “Can you not antagonize him for one day? I know this is your love language or whatever, but I want to make sure everything is okay.”

All I get in return is an irritated glare. One I give right back. Because I’m not in the mood for Bash’s shit right now.

I’ve stacked the pillows behind Clyde’s back, being borderline obsessive about getting him propped up just right. Since getting him through the front door, the weight of taking care of him feels…heavy. Like I signed up to care for this man who I’ve grown quite fond of, and if something goes wrong, I’ll hold myself responsible.