Page 34 of The Wild Card

“We went to a restaurant. Italian. She ordered wine, I ordered water. She asked about my hobbies, and I told her I didn’t have any.”

I wince. “Crew.”

“She asked what I did for fun. I said I liked to organize things.”

“Oh no.”

“She asked if I was joking. I said no. She excused herself to the bathroom and never came back.”

I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. “She left? Just… left you there?”

“Stuck me with the bill, too.”

“That’s terrible.” I’m definitely laughing now; I can’t help it. “I’m sorry, but that’s objectively hilarious.”

“It wasn’t hilarious at the time.”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” I compose myself, barely. “Okay, for the record? Organizing things is a valid hobby. You just have to frame it better. Call it, like, interior design. Or home optimization.”

“Home optimization.”

“Work with me here.” I grab a crab rangoon. “Your turn. Ask me something spicy.”

He considers this. “Why are you single?”

I nearly choke on my cream cheese. “Wow. Going straight for the jugular.”

“You said spicy.”

“I did say that.” I take a sip of water, buying time. “I don’t know. I date. It just never… sticks. Guys like me at first—I’m fun, I’m easy to talk to, I bring baked goods. But then they get to know me and realize I’m, um, a lot.”

“A lot how?”

“I talk too much. I’m messy. I have big emotions and I don’t hide them well.” I shrug, trying to keep it light. “I think guys want the fun, quirky girl until they actually have to deal with her every day. Then it becomes too much work.”

Crew is quiet for a moment, watching me with those gray eyes that see way too much. “That sounds like their problem,” he says finally. “Not yours.”

Something warm blooms in my chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet. For you.”

“I’m just being accurate.” He picks up another crab rangoon. “You’re not a lot. You’re just… you.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I change the subject. “Bucket list. Give me one thing.”

“I don’t have a bucket list.”

“Okay, now you’re just being difficult. Everyone has something they want to do before they die.”

He’s quiet again, and I’m starting to recognize this pattern. The silence isn’t avoidance—it’s processing. He’s actually thinking about the question, which is more than most people do.

“I’d like to build something. A cabin, maybe. With my hands. From start to finish.” He’s quiet for a second, turning the chopsticks over in his fingers. “I’ve never made anything permanent.”

The way he says it—permanent—hits differently than I expected. Like it’s not really about the cabin at all.

“That’s a good one,” I say. “Very rugged. Very lumberjack.”

“What about you?” he asks. “Bucket list.”

“Oh, I have a whole list. Learn to surf. Go to Italy and eat my way through Tuscany. Open my own cooking school.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Fall in love with someone who thinks my chaos is a feature, not a defect.”