Page 102 of If All Else Sails
“Right.”
“Tell me about a sailor’s life. I’m trying to picture you and Wyatt navigating down the East Coast and...I just can’t.”
“I’ll send you a picture. Proof of life—and sailing.”
And because Jacob is in a rare listening mood, I babble on about the trip. How stressful it can be at points when we’re navigating around other boats or through a narrow passage with debris. The different kinds of bridges—swing and bascule and lift. It’s refreshing to talk to my brother without him pumping me for information about Wyatt’s recovery and whether Wyatt is coming back to Boston soon.
It feels like progress.
“I’m kind of jealous,” he says when I’m done.
“Hey—you’re the one who skipped out on the Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. And I’m planning to make it up to you,” Jacob says.
“How?” I demand.
He scoffs. “Like I’d just tell you. That’s not my style.”
Yeah, his style is more in the vein of making plans and coercing everyone else to go along with them. Still, the idea that he has something in mind to make up for ditching our trip makes me happy. And slightly nervous. I think I’ve dealt with enough surprises lately to last me for a while.
“Before you go, I’ve got a question for you.” One I’ve been wondering ever since Wyatt told me he’s from Richmond. “Do you know much about Wyatt’s family?”
The quiet on the line tells me Jacob does. “Enough. He talked to you about them?”
“A bit.”
“I used to pay to fly his uncle up to games.”
“You did?” Every so often, my brother says something like this, reminding me he’s not entirely self-focused. “I’m surprised Wyatt didn’t do it.”
“I think he thought if he offered, his uncle would feel like he had to go. Wyatt is always concerned with not being burdensome to people. He didn’t want his uncle to feel like hehadto go.”
It’s hard to see an offer of flying a person to a hockey game for free as anything but a great gift. But then, for someone who grew up with a father like Wyatt’s, I can see his understanding of love and family being twisted up and confused with the idea of duty and being a burden.
“That was really nice of you,” I say.
My brother chuckles. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m nice.”
“I never said you weren’t nice. You’re just also...” I fish for the right word, but there isn’t one that’s both accurateandkind.
“I see how it is. But just remember to thank me when this is all over.”
“Thank you for what?”
“I’ve got to go. Call or text a little more. And send me the photo like you promised. Just so I know you’re alive. Unless you want me to fly down and find you.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck. I have your location on my phone, and Wyatt gave me your tentative schedule before you left.”
“Wait—then why’d you even ask if I was lost at sea?”
My brother ends the call instead of answering my question, and half a second later, Wyatt opens the sliding glass door, looking like a four-course meal in a button-down shirt and damp hair.
My throat muscles seem to have lost the ability to swallow. Because now, when I look at him, he’s not just a grumpy yet secretly soft man but a man who has endured family trauma and come out on the other side of it okay. It’s dangerous to have this knowledge that makes me like and respect him more.
Because it only makes him look more delicious to me now than he did before.
