Bash: Three games. Seven too few, if you ask me.

    Tripp: Lol. I hear ya. Gonna celebrate anyway.

    Bash: With who?

    Tripp: Just some buddies.

    Bash: Not the girlfriend?

    Tripp: Nah. Just a few of the boys.

    Bash: Have fun.hr

    “SERIOUSLY? YOGA AGAIN?

    Clyde stomps his feet, spraying snow all over the footwell of my truck. My teeth mp together, but I say nothing. I’m too busy beating myself up for trying to get information about Gwen out of my own son. I know she’s here, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t together. Tripp didn’t confirm or deny shit via text. And not knowing is irritating me.

    “Feels good. And as I’ve always said, ‘If it feels good, do it.’”

    I re at Clyde. He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face. I swear he’s like a child sometimes.

    “Clyde, that’s not something you’ve always said. That’s a Sloan song.”

    He grumbles. “Huh. Maybe it was, ‘If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.’”

    I sigh and drop my head to my palm. It’s not worth telling him that’s a Sheryl Crow song.

    “Whichever one it is, you should take my advice,” he says. “A private yoga ss would be good for you.”

    Shaking my head, I pull away and drive him down the mountain. Anxiety builds in my stomach the closer we get to the yoga studio because having to see Gwen here—so close and yet so fucking far away—is its own special brand of torture.

    Go look at something purple, Clyde teased yesterday. And all I could think was, I can’t. Not when everything purple reminds me of Gwen’s unusual eye color.

    And looking at Gwen makes me want that first date she teased me about, the one where I finally learn her full name. It’s been a year, and try as I might, I can’t shake her. Or what could have been. I blew it when I entered that one number wrong. And the brutal truth is that I can’t act on it with me and Tripp still trying to find solid ground.

    The injustice of it all just stokes the constant spark of fury that’s been burning in my chest since everything got turned upside down.

    I hate feeling like a victim.

    And yet here I am, ying one. Stuck in a rut I don’t know how to get out of. I work on Ford’s property, finishing up the inside of the guest cabins at his recording studio. I bowl on Thursdays and try to have a good time. And even though he irritates me, I help Clyde with medical appointments and ferry him into town.

    But every other night, I’m home alone, consumed by what could have been, knowing Gwen from the airport is staying practically down the street. Nothing happened between us, and yet her mere presence eats me up inside.

    I’ve never been known for my enthusiasm, but I’ll admit, even by my standards, I’m dark these days.

    Clyde and I drive into town in silence, and it’s not until we pull up in front of the yoga studio that Clyde looks my way. “You’re acting like a sullen teenager,” he says inly. Then he gets out.

    I’m annoyed to realize he’s right. And I have no clue how to stop.

    So I decide my best course of action is to avoid Gwen at all costs.hr

    Months pass of Gwen and I skirting each other.

    Much to my dismay, my friend group has slowly be her friend group. Clyde has be yoga obsessed, and if it wasn’t actually making him morefortable, I would use him of taking private lessons with Gwen to terrorize me. On top of that, Rosie, Skr, and Tabby have taken to inviting her to group dinners and family get-togethers.

    I appreciate how inclusive they are, but I also fucking hate it. It’s like I can’t escape her, no matter how hard I try.

    So like the mature adult I am, I stick to the opposite side of the room when we wind up in the same ce at the same time. I make conversation with literally anyone other than her, while also listening in on her conversations, desperatelypping up any droplets of information I can get.

    Truth be told, I’m listening for any mention of Tripp. On one hand, I hope like hell she dumped his ass. On the other, I hope they’re making it work because Gwen is a catch and that’s what a good dad should want for his son.

    But I make a point of never asking. Of making sure I don’t seem too interested.

    Tripp hasn’t been forting about his personal life, and I haven’t pushed him. Instead, I’ve settled for what he’s been willing to give me.

    One bright spot is that he’s taken a sincere interest in my start as a wilnd firefighter and how it led me to wildfire aviation—something we’ve ended up talking about during the odd phone call. His questions on that topic are always thoughtful and give me hope that we might still be able to forge a genuine rtionship.

    Slowly but surely, Tripp Coleman is starting to feel less like a stranger and more like someone I’ll know for the rest of my life.

    Still, I think about Gwen. Even though I know I shouldn’t.

    My contracting business has been slower than usual, leaving me restless. Between my psychological torment and my hyperfixation on summer—when I can get back up in the air and feel needed for something—I’m in a weird headspace.

    Bad as it sounds, I’m desperate for forest-fire season just so I can get out of here. And wishing for natural disasters has to be a new all-time low.

    Maybe I’m just in a bad mood because of the lousy, green beer I’m drinking across from Clyde at a narrow high-top table.

    “I don’t think you should be drinking,” I say.

    The man ignores me, taking a healthy guzzle of his beer while looking around the Reach. Doris has decorated, and it looks like a bunch of leprechauns exploded all over the ce. Even the windows have slimy, green jelly cut-outs on them. They’re gross.

    “Meh. You only live once, Sebastian. And I don’t think it will be that long for me. Let me enjoy my swamp beer. Can’t make my kidneys any worse than they already are.”

    Clyde has been on the transnt list for some time now—and it’s not looking good. As much as I grumble about the guy, the prospect of losing his annoying ass is more than I can take right now.

    I swallow hard and nce away. My eyes catch on his wheelchair in the corner. He’s gotten so weak that walking has be difficult. I can tell that he’s tired.

    For his sake, I try to stay positive.

    “I still think a donor coulde through.”

    Clyde shrugs, a soft smile curving his lips. “Maybe,” he says nomittally. And I don’t like the way it sounds. The way he’s watching everyone, taking it all in as though this might be hisst St. Patrick’s Day.

    Suddenly, his request for me to take him out tonight feels… bleak. It makes me realize that there probably will be ast time I pick him up. There will be ast beer we share. Ast eye roll he shoots me. And I might not even recognize the moment for what it is.

    I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been wallowing in misery for months or if it’s a reaction to the toxic levels of Green No. 3 in my beer, but I blurt out my next words without thinking.

    “I think we should see if I’m a match.”

    Clydeughs and ps me on the shoulder. “That’s a mean joke, ya little shit. I like it.”

    I blink, gears turning in my head, before shifting on my stool to face him. “I’m not joking. I’ve got two working kidneys and nothing but time on my hands right now. Wouldn’t hurt to check.”

    Clyde spins the pint ss between his hands, assessing me from beneath furrowed brows. As though searching for some proof that I’m bullshitting him. “That’s ridiculous,” he grumbles.

    I shrug. It probably is, but here I am, offering it all the same. “I could use a little good karma, Clyde.”

    He rolls his eyes. “Only you could make giving me a kidney about yourself. Oh please, Clyde, let me give you a kidney so I can feel better about myself,” he teases in a whiny voice.

    I scoff. “You know what, maybe I should just let you die.”

    “At least then I wouldn’t have to spend all my free time with a guy who cries as he masturbates while thinking about his son’s ex-girlfriend.”

    My head falls back as I re up at the ceiling. “Get fucked, Clyde.” Then I pause and turn back to meet his watery, blue eyes, the whites of which look awfully yellow these days.

    A word sticks in my head as I stare back at him. In an instant, my throat goes tight, my palms sweaty.

    “Did you say ex-girlfriend?”

    Now the older manughs and shakes his head, like I amuse him greatly. “Caught that, did ya? You little pervert.”

    I should be embarrassed by how quickly Itched on to this tidbit, but my desperate curiosity prevents me from overthinking it.

    “Clyde, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying to give you an organ, and you’re sitting here shit-talking me to my face.”

    He smacks his lips. “Someone’s gotta do it. You’re more depressing than I am, even though I’m the one who’s dying. Surprised you’re not offering me both kidneys with how goddamn emo you’ve beentely.”

    I freeze at that, jaw working as I assess the man. “Wait. Are you hanging out with me as some sort of good deed?”

    Clyde nces away. “Why else do you think I’m out drinking stupid green beer with you? There are security cameras all over this ce, and I’m pretty sure Doris is an undercover agent.”

    My mouth pops open and stays that way. I thought I was here doing Clyde a favor when he’s the one extending a pity invite to his loner friend on St. Paddy’s Day.

    I don’t want to fixate on that part, so I parry it aside with, “You think Doris what?”

    He takes a swig and nces around. “You heard me. Don’t make a scene—she’s probably watching. Reporting.”

    “Clyde, you say the wildest stuff sometimes. I don’t even know where youe up with it. What would she report?”

    He grins. “That you’d miss me if I died and that you desperately want to save your best friend’s life.”

    My eyes roll. Best friend. “No kidney for you. I take it back.”

    “I’ll talk to Doris. She can arrange to have it harvested against your will.”

    “You would too,” I grumble.

    Clyde just cackles, all raspy and amused. “You’re so obnoxiously loyal, you’d still be my friend if I did.”

    I scoff at the idea. I’m not that loyal.

    Still, I stay and have a second (and third) beer with the man while we guess what different patrons do for a living.

    And the next day, through the haze of too many green beers, I call my doctor to schedule a donor evaluation.