Page 129 of If All Else Sails
“Vintage,” he says.
I can’t help grinning, remembering the first time he said this to me on the way to the hospital. Why does it seem like a lifetime ago?
“So it’s about your age, then?”
His light finger movements turn to tickling, and I have to dart away, almost knocking over a stand of gummy alligators in the process.
We step back out into the sunshine, me carrying a bag of fudge and a few other candies in one hand. Wyatt insisted on buying it for me but keeps glaring at the bag. Apparently, the man sees sugar as a mortal enemy. While I, on the other hand, tried a sample of every kind of fudge and feel slightly ill. I showedsomerestraint, at least, and chose only three kinds to purchase.
I bet I can fix his vendetta against desserts. Over time.
Assuming Ihavetime. Hopefully, lots of it, which is my current working assumption. A shaky, unsure one. Though Wyatt did use the wordlovethe night we kissed in the storm, it wasn’t in the form ofI love you. And he hasn’t said it again.
Are we in a relationship? It feels that way. And though I’m anxious to have a firm understanding of what we’re doing, I am equally anxious about knowing. Every time I think about bringing it up, about dipping my toe into the water of that conversation, my stomach clenches with nerves and my tongue acts like it’s been frozen by a paralytic agent.
For now, I’m buoyant, existing in a very pleasant kissing limbo with worry banished to the edges. Mostly.
I might have a Google Doc of questions and topics to cover. But when wedotalk, I’ll try to pose them naturally. Just in case creating a Google Doc of questions is the kind of thing that would scare Wyatt off.
“We’ve established that you don’t like candy,” I say as we pass a set of stairs so old and far from modern safety codes that it actually has a warning sign. “You don’t like looking at historic architecture. Whatdoyou like?”
Turning my way and capturing my gaze, he says, “The view.”
If someone had told me before this summer that Wyatt the Grouch could say sweet things, I’d never have believed it. I couldn’t even sell this story to a tabloid—not that I would, of course.
I steer us toward the shell shop, where I find about a dozen things I don’t need but really want, and he pets the owner’s dog. Wyatt thinks he’s been sneaky, but I’ve caught him checking the doggy daycare’s webcam feed multiple times, glaring at his screen. His features only soften when he catches sight of Jib.
“Stop putting things back,” Wyatt grumbles, appearing right next to me.
I startle and drop the shell I was holding back into the bin. “What?”
Wyatt picks it up and returns it to the basket I’m carrying. “I’ve been watching you put back all the things you’ve been carrying around. Stop it. Put them at the register.”
He’s using his bossy sailing voice, but I hesitate. “But I don’t need any of it. It’s just random stuff.”
His eyes are piercing. “Spoiling you isn’t about just taking care of what youneed. It’s about taking care of what you need andthenbuying you everything you want. Because I can. And I want to. Get the shells, Josie.”
He crosses his arms, looking more fearsome than any man should while saying something so ridiculously sappy.
I could float right out of the store, but the part of me not used to this treatment still grapples with the idea of being spoiled, being taken care of.
“Are you sure that—”
His low rumble of protest has the store dog running over. She butts her head into Wyatt’s thigh, whining. I laugh, grabbing a few things I’d put back and scurrying over to the register. If the man insists...
After we drive away from the waterfront in our rented car, we stop to walk through one of the historic squares that Savannah is known for. We eat fudge—yes, even Wyatt, begrudgingly— from the paper bag while sitting on a bench under a live oak draped with Spanish moss. It’s wonderful, despite me sweating through my clothes. I know my hair has taken on a life if its own in the humidity. I miss the constant feel of wind in my hair while on the boat.
While a piece of dark chocolate mint fudge melts in my mouth, I briefly consider broaching the subject of the future. But I don’t want to ruin this lovely moment. Especially when Wyatt spends more time than he needs to kissing fudge from the corner of my lips.
“Maybe I don’t dislikeallsweets,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I should definitely have bought more fudge.
Wyatt surprises me by taking us to Grayson Stadium, the home of the Savannah Bananas baseball organization. I follow the team on Instagram, but Wyatt doesn’t use social media. And other than his brief argument over basketball with Greg that one time, he hasn’t talked about sports other than hockey.
“How do you know about the Bananas?” I ask. “Are you even a baseball fan?”
“I don’t live in a cave, Rookie.”
