Page 209 of Wild Card 13

And me in the middle with damp hair, a swollen grin, and an L still hidden under my glove tape where the camera could not see it.

The fireplace crackled softly behind the glass.

I should have moved the photo before she came in. Which was insane, because twelve hours ago I had no idea my ex would ever walk into my house. Still, shame moved through me on reflex. Not because the picture was bad. Because it was honest in a way most of the house was not.

A boy before everything broke. A version of me who still believed wanting something badly enough meant it would stay.

“You kept that one,” she said.

Her voice was gentle.

I looked at the frame instead of her. “Mom gave it to me when I bought the place.”

“And you put it on the mantel?”

“Where else was I supposed to put it?”

“That was almost a normal answer.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

Her mouth curved faintly, but her eyes stayed on the photo. “I remember that night.”

Every muscle in my body went careful. “Yeah,” I said.

She turned back toward the lake before the memory could get teeth. For a minute, neither of us said anything. Dottie sighed from the couch, full-bodied and dramatic, then rearranged herself so one paw hung off the cushion.

Lucy looked over. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“She is shedding on your couch.”

“Shortcake, I spend most of my life surrounded by hockey gear. A dog on my couch is the cleanest thing that’s happened to me all week.”

Lucy’s eyes flicked to mine at the nickname.

My stomach dropped. “Sorry.”

She held my gaze for a breath, then looked away. “It’s okay.”

It was not forgiveness. I knew that. But it was still something. I took it like a man starving enough to be grateful for crumbs and tried not to hate myself for the hunger.

“Bourbon?” I asked.

Lucy turned from the glass. “That was the drink?”

“You agreed to one.”

“I did.”

“I have bourbon.”

“I gathered that from the bourbon question.”

There she was. Tired, guarded, standing in my house with firelight in her hair, still capable of making me feel like a teenage boy who had just been corrected in public and enjoyed it too much.

I moved into the kitchen, partly because I needed something to do and partly because if I stayed still any longer, every feeling I had would start showing on my face. The kitchen lights were low, just the under-cabinet strip along the backsplash and the faint glow over the island. Charcoal cabinets. Steel appliances. Clean counters except for the mail pile I had shoved beside the fruit bowl three days ago and not dealt with.