Page 112 of If All Else Sails
Light, small touches. The kind I’m amazed that someone his size—whose literal job is to pummel other big dudes on the ice—is capable of. A delicate brush of fingertips on my elbow when passing by me to raise the sails. A warm palm barely resting on my lower back as I climb the stair-ladder to the deck. A shoulder nudging mine as we drink coffee and discuss our route for the day.
Butterfly kisses were immortalized in song, but someone should really write a banger about bird-feather touches. Wyatt’s contact is hummingbird fast—there and gone. Whispers of warm skin disappearing before I can lean in for more. He leaves goose bumps and shortness of breath in his wake.
I swear, I’ve never met a man so steeped in patience. So restrained. A study in self-control.
It’s driving me crazy.
And maybe that’s the point?
Wyatt gives me careful space—but not too much. Always, there are reminders that he left the door open for me to make a choice. To take the next step.
And I know, considering the fact that every day is one day closer to our return to real life, my next steps should be ten big ones—backward.
There’s too much of a disconnect between our lives.
Me: humble elementary school nurse. Only in high demand because so few people want to work for so little.
Wyatt: famous hockey player. In multimillion-dollar demand because he can help teams win trophies.
Or do they win cups in hockey? I don’t remember. I probably never knew in the first place.
See? More disconnect. I don’t even know the basics about Wyatt’s career. The one he committed to when he was just a kid and said he made into his identity.
When we finish this trip, I imagine a giant reset button being pressed. Wyatt will go back to Boston and his big, important life and then remember he barely tolerates me. I’ll go back to Fredericksburg and buy a house like I’ve always wanted. And it won’t make me feel queasy like it does anytime I think about it now.
Even though I do my best to think about these things, to tell myself I should be moving back not forward, I can’t seem to stop drifting into Wyatt’s orbit. Not when he’s being so sweet and thoughtful and still somehow gruff and serious—a combination that really works for me, by the way—and won’t stop touching me.
When I call Toni that night and explain everything in hushed whispers underneath my pillow so Wyatt can’t hear, she laughs. Laughs!
“You should just kiss the man,” she says.
“What? I—No. Absolutely not. That would be the worst thing I could do.”
“The worst thing for who?”
“Whom,” I absently correct. “And for me. For him. For everyone.”
“Josie, can I tell you something?” Toni asks.
“No,” I say weakly. “But you’re going to anyway.”
“You run scared anytime someone gets close. Maybe it’s time to stop running.”
I disagree. I don’t do that. I haven’t been running. I just haven’t met a great guy. Someone who likes me for me and doesn’t think nude body painting is a good idea for a first date. A guy who’s thoughtful and trustworthy and fun to be around and attractive...like Wyatt.
Maybe a month ago I would have laughed at the idea. But things are so different between us now.
For now, I mentally correct. They’re different for now, but they’ll snap right back into place just like an elastic band stretched to its limits. We’re at the stretching point. It’s not sustainable. And I know the snap back is going to hurt.
After getting off the phone with Toni—who is again insisting I kiss him when I hang up on her—I decide to help ground myself by watching clips of Wyatt playing hockey. This will be the reminder I need of our very different lives and how things can never work between us.
But it backfires.
Because Wyatt on the ice is a thing of beauty. Brutal beauty.
I don’t understand the game aside from the idea that the puck needs to get into the net, but it doesn’t matter. There is no shortage of Wyatt Jacobs highlights on YouTube. Wyatt Jacobs playlists organized by fans. A few full games, but I quickly realize following a game is beyond my pay grade. I can’t ever tell where the puck is. Too fast.
But I can’t take my eyes off Wyatt.
