Page 63 of If All Else Sails
My cheeks flush as I fumble for words and come up empty.
“You could bring your headlamp,” Wyatt says, and I can tell he’s trying to make light of this. Trying to make a joke.
He’s soverybad at it.
“Are you saying...youwantme to go with you?”
He nods, but that’s not enough.
“Me?”
“I can’t go alone,” he says.
Ah. So it’s not about me. It’s about having another person to help considering his injury. This makes more sense, but it stings. More than it should.
“Have you ever been sailing?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t be much help.”
“I’d teach you.”
Wyatt—teaching me to sail. The idea is a bowling ball, rolling around my brain and knocking over every thought that tries to form. My pulse is racing and my cheeks and the back of my neck both feel hot.
There’s an uncomfortable prickle ofsomethingat the idea of taking a sailing trip with Wyatt.
Dread? Desire? I’m honestly not sure.
“How long would it take?” I ask.
“A few weeks,” he says. “Weather determines a lot in terms of how far we get each day.”
I want to say yes. I want to get in my car and drive home.
I want to push past the anxious thoughts and do something I’ve never done. Something I realize Iwantto do. Which is more terrifying than the idea of being alone with Wyatt on a boat doing all new things.
“I have conditions.Acondition,” I find myself saying.
Meanwhile, a terrified voice in my head screams,Abort! Abort! Abort! Mayday!
“Which is?”
“You start physical therapy. See your doctor for whatever follow-ups you’re supposed to do. If you work toward recovery and get clearance from your doctor to sail with another person there to help, I’ll go.”
He says nothing for another long moment, and I pull the last splinter from his palm. Finally.
“You’re all done,” I tell him, setting down the tweezers and stretching my neck. Telling myself not to think about the fact that Wyatt hasn’t given me an answer.
I click off the headlamp, and the single remaining lamplight bathes the room in a soft glow.
Guess this answers that. If Wyatt is so set on sabotaging his recovery, it saves me from taking the trip. I stand up, ready to head back to bed—like I can sleepnow—when Wyatt lightly traps my hand, tugging me to a stop.
“I’ll do it,” he says.
“It’s that easy?”
He swallows hard, like this decision is anything but easy, and it makes me wonder why he seems so set on not doing what’s best for him.
“Yes,” he says simply.
