Page 99 of If All Else Sails
“Shall we go over our day?” Wyatt asks.
I nod with a thick swallow.Ourday. People talk about four letter words, but this three-letter word is the one that does me in. Every time.
Our trip. Our dog. Our day.
Wyatt pulls out his iPad with the Aqua Map, and I grab my guidebook and chartbook—the next part of our morning routine. Wyatt is team tech and I’m old school, using books and binoculars. We bicker about it every time we discuss routes. Honestly, it’s probably better that we use both. And I think we both enjoy the back-and-forth about it. Just one more part of our morning routine.
Today’s potential issues on the route include rough water in the Pamlico Sound and shallow waters in the Neuse River. My guidebook says we’re likely to see porpoises today,which has me kicking my feet. We haven’t seen any since the first day, and I’m hopeful.
Wyatt glances at the sky, overcast in towering clouds, muting the sun. “We should keep an eye on the weather. Don’t want storms during this stretch—winds could take us off course and leave us stuck in the shoals.”
I nod. Off course is the current story of my life.
“But if we avoid trouble, it will be a short day,” he says. “And a night in a real bed.”
A bed.I’m already grinning at the thought. It’s why I’ve been looking forward to our stop at the Oriental Marina & Inn. Emphasis on theInn.
Not that I mind sleeping on the boat. Actually, I love it. This has honestly been some of the best sleep of my life. I’m not sure if that’s due to the gentle rocking at night or simply because traveling by boat in the middle of summer is exhausting. I fall bonelessly into bed every night and pretty much crash the moment my eyes close.
But...I can hear a hotel bed calling my name. Arealmattress, one thicker than a few inches. Sleeping on firm, unmoving land. With really good air-conditioning and maybe even a bathtub.
It’s the last one that does it for me.
I hop up from my seat, which wakes Jib. She scurries in circles with a bark, looking for danger or excitement. Finding none, she shoots me a dog version of a glare and stalks off to the fake grass—which she still refuses to use as anything other than her personal sunbathing area.
“Then let’s get a move on, slowpoke,” I say, holding out my hand to Wyatt. Not that he needs help getting up. I’ll never forget the way he smoothly went from the floor to standing on one leg the night he got all the splinters.
Why does that night feel like it was years ago, not weeks?
When Wyatt slips his hand into mine, he doesn’t move for a few seconds, his eyes on me and our palms gently pressed together. My heart beats an unsteady rhythm that I feel all the way in my toes. Then, Wyatt stands, gives my hand a quick squeeze, and disappears into the galley with both our empty mugs.
I’m still standing there, palm tingling, when he returns— with the Cool Whip container. His expression is hesitant, and it makes my throat tighten.
“Is this...okay?” he asks.
“It’s not about me, Wyatt. Is it okay withyou?”
He glances down at the container cupped in one big hand, then nods. I follow him to the stern, imagining him standing here alone, honoring his uncle’s wishes. Saying his goodbyes.
I stand next to him, unsure what I should do, what I should say. I settle on leaning in and wrapping an arm around his waist. I feel him relax against me with a sigh.
He opens the container, hesitates for a moment, then dips his fingers inside. I swallow, pressing even closer, feeling more emotional than I have any right to.
Wyatt opens his fingers, releasing a handful of ashes quickly carried away by the gentle breeze.
We stand there for a few moments, the humid heat pressing in on us both, as a gull circles overhead, for once not laughing. I give myself a silent pep talk until I’m able to ask a question that I’ve been wanting to voice for days. “Would you like to talk about him?”
When he says nothing, I mentally kick myself. It’s such a big, vague question. I should have asked something specific rather than a yes or no question. I already know Wyatt’s favorite answer to those.
So I’m shocked when he starts talking. “He was his own man. Not like anyone else and not trying to be anyone else. He laughed often and loudly—he sounded a bit like a honking goose when he did it.”
His smile is faint but there, and I find myself smiling back. “Your mom said you spent summers with him? You and your brother or just you?”
“Just me.”
I almost ask why but think better of it when I see his jaw clench. I’m not as adept at reading him as he seems to be at reading me, but I don’t need a Wyatt Instruction Manual to recognize tension. To feel it where my arm is still curled around his waist.
“And we’re sailing the route you took with him each summer?”
