Page 64 of Wild Card

Talk about awkward.

But worse, talk about feeling like shit.

Yes, I, Sebastian Rousseau, feel like a giant pile of steaming dog shit for even thinking about crossing that line with Gwen.

It would be like any random dude dating an ex of mine. Unless I was hung up on her.

Those were Rhys’s words. And I’ve thought about them a lot. Those words started my brain down the path of thinking things might be okay between Gwen and me.

But the “hung up on her”part has really fucked me over.

“But today at your house, she didn’t even come around.” He looks like a sad puppy dog, head hung over a pint of gold beer.

“Have you spoken since it ended?”

The question sounds supportive, but I’m really only asking out of my own morbid curiosity. It’s felt inappropriate to ask Gwen about the demise of their relationship, but somehow squeezing the details out of Tripp seems easier, if slightly more distasteful.

His hand slaps the table as he straightens and looks across at me. “That’s the other thing.Shedumpedme. I’ve never been dumped before, let alone by someone like her.”

My hackles rise. “Someone like her?”

His hands grip the brim of his hat, folding it into a curve. “You know, like, older. More established. If some young puck bunny dumped me, I wouldn’t care. But Gwen knows what she wants, you know? And it’s obviously not me. She was so decisive about it. Kinda embarrassing. Which is why I haven’t really talked about it.”

No one has ever spoken a truer sentence. Gwen certainly does know what she wants. And I can see how that rejection might have stung—especially for someone with a sense of pride like Tripp.

“Rejection is tough, man. I know that feeling well,” I say, being supportive, even though a part of me wants to tell him to grow up.

“It’s like… She hasn’t even called me. And they always call.”

I let out a beleaguered sigh and try to remember that, at twenty-four, I was pretty stupid too.

“Have you called her?”

He scoffs now, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Nah. I can’t just roll around groveling for a second chance. I’m not that guy.”

My eyes hurt from the effort of keeping them from rolling. It strikes me that maybe I’m not cut out for parenting after all because talking to Tripp about this makes me want to grab thefork beside me and stab myself in the face—anything to end this conversation.

With every word he says, my agitation builds. Partly because I’m realizing that my son might be a bit of a douchebag. And partly because, even if he is a douchebag I sure as hell can’t pursue Gwen after hearing all this.

I shrug, feeling defeated. “Sometimes that’s what it takes when we mess up. And maybe Gwen isn’t the right one if you’re not willing to grovel. You’ll know when it’s right because you’ll be willing to do absolutely anything to get her back.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mess up.” He takes a swig of his drink and shakes his head. “She has no idea what she’s missing, how good we could be together.”

I marvel at his lack of self-reflection, wondering what that must feel like to move through life without questioning every choice and misstep. Meanwhile, I’m dissecting all the places I’ve gone wrong, all the turns I’ve taken to get me where I am today.

I’m paralyzed by it. And he’s just…coasting.

I can’t fathom what it’s like to possess his level of confidence and nonchalance.

He goes on to tell me about his team. His summer training plans. The Lamborghini he plans to buy.

I try to enjoy it and soak up his company. After all, I’m the one who wanted a place in his life. And now he’s here, practically handing it to me on a silver platter.

But I feel sick and miserable the entire time. He was a fool to let her get away in the first place and his sentiment about how good they could be together eats at me.

The more he talks, the more agitated I become.

All I can think about is…how goodthey’dbe together.