Page 115 of If All Else Sails
Wyatt sways closer, his face dipping down as I lift up on my toes. His nose bumps mine and then—
“Let’s goooooo!”
The moment is rudely interrupted by blaring horns and cheers and shouts. There’s even an air horn in the mix. Or is that a bullhorn? I think it’s actually both.
Bullhorns or matterhorns or whatever, they do the hard work of ruining the moment—or saving it, depending on which part of my brain I’m listening to at the moment.
“Guess we should get moving!” I say, and with what I know is probably a disturbingly wide and completely insincere smile, I scramble up on deck.
Chapter27
Permission to Board
Wyatt
By the time we reach Carolina Beach a few days later, where we plan to stop for two nights, my patience is a frayed cord.
A frayed cord with a razor’s edge hovering millimeters away from the last intact thread.
Josie is the one holding the handle.
I think, at this point, she’s holding everything. The razor to my frayed patience. All the cards. And my heart.
She’s also holding back, and I don’t know why.
Is it because of what the guy did when she was in high school? Understandable.
Even if it’s not, I still want to track that guy down and do things that would probably be career ending and possibly result in jail time.
If I had to guess, there might be some long-standing trauma— no matter what she said about the word—from that event impacting her ability to connect. You can’t just go around telling people theyneed therapy, but I would feel better if Josie did talk to someone. To help her with this and with her anxiety, which she downplayed asanxious thoughts. One more way she’s making herself small.
There could be other reasons, like our rocky shared history, the complication of her brother being my agent and friend, or maybe just my job. Not only does it create distance, but being in a relationship with a professional athlete isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Of course, the women who actively seek out professional athletes—the money, the fame, the everything—aren’tmycup of tea. Never have been.
Most of the happily married guys I’ve known didn’t choose someone who was showing up at a hotel or dropping into DMs. They chose women who were normal, who didn’t just like them because they played hockey or even liked them inspiteof it. And it’s not like I’ll play forever. So, it doesn’t need to be a barrier.
If that’s the barrier.
I’m not even sure.
A conversation could clear it up, but the last time I tried talking to Josie—admittedly, too early on the trip—she shut me down and I promised her she could choose the speed. I guess I didn’t expect her to keep zipping forward and then jamming her foot on the brakes. I’ve made myself the passenger, but what I want to do is yank her out of the driver’s seat and take the wheel.
The one thing holding me back is my promise not to. “I’m a patient man,” I mutter, repeating my own words in a mocking tone. “I won’t push you.”
“Wyatt?”
My head snaps up as Josie comes up from below. “Hmm?”
“Who are you talking to?”
She’s smiling and carrying Jib under one arm. The little dog is dressed today in one of the bikinis Josie bought for her. It’s red with ru?es. She looks ridiculous. And adorable. I’m not sure when my position on clothing for dogs changed, but I actually look forward to seeing each day’s outfit.
I probably should ask my doctor for a CT scan when I get back. Just to make sure I don’t have some weird tumor growing in whatever part of the brain controls liking dogs dressed up in people clothes.
“I was just talking to myself,” I tell her.
“Must have been some conversation.”
Josie shifts to put Jib down and her white cover-up slips off one shoulder, revealing the strap of her bathing suit. Red. I frown.
