Chapter Twenty-Two
The Tell
Crew
Foster’s apartment smells like cigars and bad decisions.
“You’re smiling again.” Rodriguez points at me with a poker chip. “That’s three times tonight. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You absolutely are.” Staley throws in his ante without looking away from my face. “It’s creepy. Stop it.”
“I don’t smile.”
“Exactly.” Foster deals the cards with practiced efficiency. “Which is why it’s so deeply unsettling when you do.”
I school my expression into something neutral, but apparently, the damage is done. The four of them—Foster, Rodriguez, Staley, and Josh—are staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Josh asks. “The roommate. Emmie.”
“She’s not—” I stop. Regroup. “We’re just—”
“If you say ‘mutually beneficial arrangement’ one more time, I’m going to throw this beer at your head.” Foster picks up his cards. “You’ve been different since she moved in. Admit it.”
“I haven’t been different.”
“You brought cookies to the briefing last week.”
“She made too many. I was being practical.”
“You hummed in the elevator yesterday.”
“I didn’t—”
“You hummed, Jensen. In public.” Rodriguez shakes his head. “I didn’t even know you knew how to hum.”
I look at my cards. Pair of sevens. Not great. “You’re all being ridiculous.”
“We’re being observant.” Staley tosses in a few chips. “You know. Like we’re trained to be. Federal agents and all that.”
“She’s good for you,” Foster says, and there’s something genuine under the teasing. “Whatever’s going on—fake, real, complicated—she’s good for you. You’re lighter.”
Lighter.
I don’t feel lighter. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground crumble beneath my feet, and somehow everyone else sees a man enjoying the view.
“I raise.” I push chips into the center. “And I’m not lighter. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”
“Sure.” Foster matches my bet. “That’s why you left work on time three days in a row. That’s why you actually ate lunch at lunch instead of working through it. That’s why—”
“Can we just play cards?”
They exchange looks. The kind of looks that say we’ll drop it for now, but this conversation isn’t over.
The game continues. I win two hands, lose one, fold on a bluff that would’ve cost me fifty bucks. Normal. Routine. My brain should be focused on the cards, on the odds, on the familiar comfort of strategy and calculation.
Instead, I keep thinking about Emmie.
About the way she looked curled up in my hoodie, crying about paper towels and babies and everything she wants out of life. About the way she’d said I think you’d be a good dad like it was obvious, like she couldn’t fathom why I’d think otherwise.
About the way I’d wanted to believe her.
It’s fake, I remind myself. This is fake. She’s playing a role, and so are you, and when the transfer threat is over, this ends. She goes back to being your roommate—or moves out entirely—and you go back to your routine.
The thought makes my chest tight.
“Jensen.” Foster’s voice cuts through. “You in or out?”
I look at my cards. I don’t even remember what I’m holding.
“Out.” I fold, tossing the cards down. “I need a drink.”
I push back from the table and head to Foster’s kitchen. I don’t usually drink. Alcohol and anxiety medication make poor bedfellows, and besides, the thought of being out of control—even slightly, even pleasantly—has always made my skin crawl, which means I rarely indulge.
Tonight, I open Foster’s fridge, bypass the water, and grab a beer.
I twist it off and take a long pull.
Through the doorway, I can hear them talking in low voices. About me, probably. About how different I am, how happy I seem.
They don’t understand.
Because somewhere along the way, I started feeling things. Real things that absolutely fucking terrify me.
I like her.
I more than like her.
And that’s a disaster waiting to happen, because Emmie Marshall wants things I can’t give her.
She wants marriage. She wants babies. She wants Sunday dinners with her loud, loving family and Christmas mornings with chubby toddlers making messes and a partner who knows how to be soft and warm and present.
She wants the kind of life I’ve only ever seen from the outside, nose pressed against the glass, knowing it wasn’t meant for me.
I can’t be that person.
I’m broken in ways that therapy has helped but hasn’t fixed, held together by routines and medication and the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around everything soft inside me.
Emmie deserves someone whole. Someone who doesn’t have to Google “how to provide emotional support.” Someone who could give her everything she wants without having to fight his own brain every step of the way.
She deserves someone who isn’t me.
“Hey.”
I turn. Foster’s leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Bullshit.” He moves closer, lowering his voice. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing.”
“Crew.”
I set down the beer. My hands are shaking slightly. I shove them in my pockets. “I’m in trouble,” I admit.
“What kind of trouble?”
“The Emmie kind.”
Foster’s expression shifts. “You caught feelings.”
“I didn’t—” I stop. Exhale. “Yeah. I think I did.”
“And that’s bad because…?”
“Because it’s fake, Foster. The whole thing is fake. She’s only with me because I tricked her into signing a contract, and when the transfer situation is resolved, she’s going to walk away, and I’m going to be—”
Alone. Back to the empty apartment and the too-quiet evenings and the routine that used to feel like safety but now just feels like a cage.
“Have you considered,” Foster says slowly, “telling her how you feel?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she wants things I can’t give her.” The words taste bitter. “She wants a family. Kids. The whole domestic fantasy. And I’m—” I gesture at myself. “Look at me. I’m not built for that. I’m not built for any of it.”
“Says who?”
“Says reality. Says the fact that I’ve never had a relationship. Ever.”
“Crew.” Foster grabs my shoulder, and I force myself not to flinch. “You’re not the same guy you were a year ago. You’re not even the same guy you were two months ago. She’s changed you.”
“She hasn’t—”
“You hummed. In the elevator.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.” He squeezes my shoulder before letting go. “I’ve known you for three years. I’ve never seen you like this. And yeah, maybe it started fake. But the way you look at her? The way you talk about her? That’s not fake, man. That’s the most real thing I’ve ever seen from you.”
I don’t know what to say.
“She’s too good for me,” I finally manage. “She’s sunshine and warmth, and I’m—”
“A grumpy asshole with a heart of gold who’s too scared to admit he deserves good things?” Foster smirks. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He’s quiet for a moment, studying me. “You know why this freaks you out so much?”
“Enlighten me.”
“She’s got wife energy.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Emmie. She’s not the kind of girl you just… date for a while and move on from. She’s the kind you keep.” He tilts his head. “You’ve never pictured yourself putting a ring on someone’s finger, have you?”
My silence is answer enough.
“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “That’s what I thought.” He steps back, nodding toward the other room. “Come finish the game. And maybe, just maybe, consider the possibility that you’re wrong about what you deserve.”
He disappears back to the poker table.
I stand in the kitchen for another minute, staring at nothing, wondering how in the hell you fix something inside you that’s so fundamentally broken.