Page 76 of If All Else Sails
“In the stomach?” I ask.
“No.”
“The knee?”
“Warmer.”
“The thigh?” I whisper.
“Hot.”
I’m an adult.I know and use the correct names for body parts all the time. But I cannot bring myself to say the word—not thecorrectone, nor any from the robust list of alternate names.
Not when I just kicked Wyattthere.
Instead, I say, “I’m so sorry.”
He grunts in response. I continue rubbing his back as my own breathing slows and the shakiness starts to settle. I’m a sweaty, nervous wreck who doesn’t remember the nightmare that caused this—not a single detail—and now on top of that, I feel terrible.
“Here,” I say, scooting over in the totally squeak-free bed he bought. “Lie down.”
It’s an impulsive request, but before I can take it back, Wyatt folds his big body onto the mattress beside me. He’s on his side, curled almost into the fetal position. I hesitate, not sure what to do with him now that he’s in my bed. He’sin my bed.
It should bother me, being this close, sharing this space. I wait for memories to rise up and send me into a panic, but they don’t. Instead, I feel comforted by his big, warm presence. Steadied. Safe.
Sucking in a breath, I fluff the pillows behind me and adjust myself into a half-sitting position, with him still in reach. In long, smooth strokes, I rub his back. Even though I was the one needing comfort, it helps to comfort someone else.
“I had a nightmare.”
“I know,” he says, and I’m glad his voice sounds a little stronger, a little less strained than just a moment ago. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Guess what they say about not waking a person from a nightmare is true.”
“I think that’s night terrors,” I say. “And I was awake— mostly. Just stuck in the throes of panic. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. As to whether or not I can still have children—”
“That’s a myth,” I point out unhelpfully. Or maybe helpfully. I’m honestly not sure. “Unless I kicked you hard enough to cause torsion and you don’t get it treated and—”
“Josie.”
“Yes?”
“Please stop.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Scratch my back.”
His tone is demanding, but in a way that makes me bite back a smile. It’s the kind of voice he’s used for our sailing practice in the bay, and I like it maybe more than I should. I lift his shirt, tugging it up to his shoulders before dragging my nails over his skin gently.
“What was your dream about?” he asks with a sigh, shifting and settling into the bed more, wiggling a little closer.
He reminds me of my parents’ golden retriever, Cloudy. Named to be ironic, since my mom found that Sunny is one of the most popular names for goldens. Anyway, they got Cloudy after I graduated from college, and I’ve never seen a dog be so shameless about demanding pets. You start scratching Cloudy, and you are not allowed to stop. He will nudge his head under your hand, smack you with his paw, and follow you through the house looking at you with big pleading eyes.
Okay, I guess comparatively, Wyatt isn’t as bad as my parents’ dog.
