Page 108 of If All Else Sails
“You could never be too much,” Wyatt whispers. “And for the record? I always liked the nail polish.”
This knowledge makes me unreasonably happy.
“Last question?” I ask, feeling buoyed by Wyatt’s words. “Hit me.”
Wyatt doesn’t make me wait, which means I don’t have time to prepare for his question, asked in the softest, haltingest voice possible. The unbearable gentleness has me smiling in the dark,thinking that fans of Oscar the Hockey Grouch will never get to see this part of him.
It also makes me miss his actual question at first. I see his lips moving and hear the words but don’t immediately process them.
Until his words start reverberating inside my skull, clanging like a drum. Or an alarm bell. A tornado siren.
Did something happen to make you dislike athletes?
That’s Wyatt’s third question.
It’s like he launched an axe at the center of my chest with deadly perfect aim.
“Wow.” It’s a strangled syllable. “That’s...a big one.”
I halfway expect or maybe hope that Wyatt will roll it back. Apologize and tell me never mind. Ask for my most embarrassing memory or maybe if I’m really okay with the way Jacob derailed my summer plans.
But he doesn’t.
What Wyattdoesdo is reach out and curl his hand around both of mine, which are now white-knuckling the comforter. Closing my eyes, I draw in a shuddery breath and find that I do actually want to talk about this.
I knew I’d need to if anythingmorewere to happen.
The truth is easier in the dark.
Wyatt planned this, I realize. Turning off the light wasn’t because he planned to give me a pity question, but for this exact moment.
“Okay,” I say, my voice breathy but stronger than a moment ago. Building momentum.
I can do this.
It’s not such a big deal. That’s what I’ve been telling myself for years, to the point I can almost believe it.
Almost. Wyatt’s thumb traces a gentle, soothing rhythm on the back of my hand. His touch eases the tightness in my chest, even as I’m forced to remember the sour-sweet smell of alcohol on a boy’s breath.
Hands, everywhere. And his weight on me—so,soheavy.
You’re not there now, I remind myself.
Letting go of the comforter, I curl my fingers around Wyatt’s hands, which were still cupping mine.
“Jacob had some friends stay over the summer before he left for college. One of them”—I pause, swallow, draw in a slow breath, remind myself that it’snot a big deal, not a big deal— “came into my room while I was sleeping. The bathroom that connects our bedrooms only locks from the inside. Anyway”—I clear my throat—“he...climbed in bed with me.Onme, really.”
A sound comes from Wyatt—a low rumble that sounds like it’s coming from the back of his throat. Almost a growl.
“When I woke up, I just froze for a few seconds. Probably minutes, I’m not sure.” Wyatt’s hand moves, and I realize it’s shaking. I tighten my grip on him, drawing strength from him or giving it to him. Maybe both. “I really don’t remember much. Just the broad strokes. He was on me, and I couldn’t move, and then the anger took over. I grabbed the closest thing I could and clocked him with it. Then dragged him back to Jacob’s room and put a chair under my doorknob.”
Wyatt’s breath hisses out of him, and I can feel him tense. I pull one of my hands away from his and slide my fingertips up to his face, brushing them over his jaw.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Try to makemefeel better. This is about you. And I’msosorry, Josie. I wouldn’t have asked if...I should have realized—”
