Wild Card (Rose Hill)

Man, sometimes you have the emotional intelligence of a gnat

“Do you remember,” she starts, “that night in the airport? How badly I put my foot in my mouth when I went on about

“I’m home!”
Next, I hear Clyde yell, “That lovesick fool is waiting for you on the back deck.”

Clyde stares at him with a look of wonder on his face.
“Damn,” he announces, jabbing his fork in Bash’s direction. “If she doesn’t marry you after this, I might.”

For a moment, I freeze, hand wrapped around the handle of the fridge, then I turn to Bash. “You made me food?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, it was no big deal. I was making something anyway.”
At that, Clyde bursts out laughing. “He was not making something else. He’s been nervous cooking since he got up. This man is so obsessed with you, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself.”

So I’m sorry. If you want to be Gwen Dawson, mother of raccoons, then I won’t stand in your way.

Yeah. You know…marijuana. Ganja. Dope. Grass. Reefer. Mary Jane. I don’t know what you kids are calling it these days, but it might serve you well.

But that thought comes to an abrupt and screeching halt when I catch sight of what she’s looking at.
Because it’s not the lake.
It’s Clyde. On the deck. Naked.
My jaw unhinges as I come to stand next to her, chin dropping in shock. He’s seated facing away from us, legs spread and in the air, with his arms hooked behind his knees.

I think that ship might have sailed.

The universe kind of fucked us.