Page 131 of If All Else Sails
Could that happen? I add it to my mental list of things to research.
Wyatt stops walking but keeps holding my hand as he answers. “Hello?”
I can hear the familiar tones of my brother’s voice but not what he’s saying. I resist the urge—barely—to snatch the phone and put it on speaker. It’s hard to remain calm when Wyatt’s frown deepens and he doesn’t give me any clues as to what my brother is prattling on about.
From what I can hear, Jacob sounds excited. Which, when it involves his clients, usually means money and deals.
The dread simmering in my stomach dials up to a full boil.
Is Wyatt signing a longer contract in Boston? How long is his current contract?
Do I want to live in Boston someday? Is that where Wyatt wants to be long term? Does he want to be withmelong term?
Wyatt must notice my mounting panic because his frown deepens when he glances at me. Letting go of my hand, he tugs me to his chest. Gladly, I wrap my arms around him. Breathing with my nose pressed to his T-shirt is much better than breathing into a paper bag.
“Thanks,” he says finally, slipping the phone into his pocket and then resting his other hand between my shoulder blades.
“What is it?” he asks. “You’re shaking.”
“Oh, you know. Just a little bit of panic. What was that phone call about?”
“Work stuff,” he says, and I’d like to take Wyatt’s phone and throw it into the ocean.
Maybe along with Wyatt. And my brother. Definitely my brother.
“Come on.” Wyatt turns me so I’m tucked against him with his arm curled around my shoulders.
I let him lead me down the beach to a more secluded area. We’re at the tip of the island, I think, with a channel of water barely wide enough for a few ships to pass separating us from another point of land. There are signs about dangerous currents, warning against swimming.
Wyatt walks us toward the water until the waves are lapping at our feet. Stopping, he pulls a plastic bag out of his pocket.
“Is that...Uncle Tom?”
“It is.”
“I’m not sure if this is an upgrade or downgrade from the Cool Whip container,” I say, and Wyatt smiles.
His smile fades as he stares down at the bag. “This is it,” he says. “The last stop he requested.”
The mood shifts instantly, all my worries and questions shoved out of the way in favor of compassion. I hook my arm around Wyatt’s waist. “How do you feel?” I ask.
Wyatt doesn’t move for a moment. “Sad. But also...okay.” He looks at me as he says this, a soft but genuine smile on his face. “Now, I’m okay.”
Because of me?I am seriously not used to feeling this needy ordesperate for validation. And I’m not about to demand Wyatt tell me what his intentions are when he’s holding his uncle in a plastic bag.
It’s windy, so Wyatt kneels and I drop down with him as he gently opens the bag and empties it into the next wave. There’s something oddly anticlimactic about the moment, which should feel huge, but it only takes a second for the last bits of Tom’s ashes to disappear. A few tiny fish streak through the shallow water and vanish from sight.
Wyatt stands and pulls me to my feet. “Now we can head home,” he says, tucking the plastic bag into his pocket again.
My chest grows so tight I can hardly draw in a breath. “Wyatt?” I whisper. “What happens when we get home? Where even is home?”
He turns and blinks in surprise at me. I’m sure my face is broadcasting every fear and worry I have about whatever comes next. Two big hands cup my cheeks, and I’m horribly embarrassed when a tear runs onto his finger. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to my forehead in a gentle kiss. He lingers there, thumbs stroking my face as his lips brush my hair.
“I wasn’t tryingnotto talk about it,” he says. “I wanted to go slow and let you set the pace for everything. Including talking about the future. I didn’t want to scare you.”
“I’m already scared. Why would you talking about this scare me?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Because what I want—what I’vealwayswanted with you—is everything.”
