Page 78 of If All Else Sails
“I want to go,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said, and then with a final squeeze, he dropped my hand and went back to the GPS. “Then go make sure the life preservers are in place and that we finished stocking the galley.”
We’d already done both of those things, but doing them again made me feel better. Somehow, I think he knew it would.
And fine, he was right: The shoes were definitely a physical manifestation of my anxiety. A place to direct all my worries and fears about taking a long boat trip when all my sailing knowledge is stuff I picked up from books, Reddit, and Wyatt over the past few weeks.
Those worries are big. Huge.
Shoes are a small worry. Easy.
The other thing I’m worried about that’s much bigger than shoes and even bigger than the boat is Wyatt. More specifically, my feelings for him.
Because a boat trip with a guy you like could feel romantic when it’s really not.
It could just as easily be full of unrequited longing and eventual heartbreak. Which I will not think about! I fire my optimism like a cannon at these intrusive thoughts anytime they arise.
But all worries about the trip aside, Idowish I had boat shoes.
It takes me a moment, but I manage to dig up words from a not-so-shallow resting place in my mind: “I struggle with change.” When Wyatt doesn’t say anything, I continue, the words flowing a little more easily as I go, like runoff down a hill. “I mean, I know that’s normal. Few people actually like change. But for me it’s...different. I don’t try new things. Or put myself in unfamiliar places.”
Wyatt wiggles a little, redirecting my scratching, and it loosens the tight bands around my chest. I smile and think again of my parents’ dog.
“You’re here,” he points out, and I stop smiling. “You came; you stayed. And you’re taking this trip with me. Those all seem new. Unfamiliar.”
My fingers freeze on his back. Is he...challenging me? Saying he doesn’t believe me? I start to pull away.
But before I can choke out some kind of defense, Wyatt turns, catching my hands with his and holding my gaze through the darkness.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to say you’re brave, Rookie. This has been a lot. It’s no wonder you’re having nightmares.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can think to say. Thoughts are hard to come by when his hands are lightly squeezing mine and his eyes are on me and his words are so...understanding. Gentle.
“I would have helped if I’d known. I mean—not that I know how to help. But I would have tried,” he says.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re so capable and confident.” He shakes his head a little, and the compliments burrow deep in the center of my chest. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things hard. Or worse. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“People don’t usually. And I don’t talk about it much.”
Try:ever.
I’m startled by this realization. I haven’t ever talked openly about this. Not to my brother or parents or Toni. My best friend is around me enough to know my habits and my propensity toward staying in my nice, safe spaces. But she’s never asked, and I’ve never confessed. Heat rises in my cheeks.
“Do you take any anxiety meds?”
“I—no. It’s not that bad.” When Wyatt narrows his eyes at me, I add, “It’s not.”
“Did you decide this or did a professional?”
Ouch. Those words hit me like the crack of a whip.
“I don’t need a professional to tell me. I can handle it just fine. I don’t have anxiety. I just get anxious. There’s a difference.”
Is there, though?His question has sent my thoughts reeling. I don’t need someone else to tell me I’m okay. Definitely not a doctor or psychiatrist. Or a psychologist? I can never remember the difference.
I’m suddenly in need of a subject change.
