Page 13 of If All Else Sails
Right now, though, the only kind of feature Wyatt could secure in a magazine would be as the before picture for a transformation piece.
“He needs someone to get him back on track,” Jacob says.
I don’t realize at first that Jacob means me. He sentmehere to help Wyatt get back on track.
Iam thesomeone.
I snatch the phone off the table and storm outside, ignoringmy body’s protests at the quick movements and at returning to the oppressive heat. I find a shady spot under an overgrown shrub that’s nearly as tall as the house.
“Please explain why you think I would ever agree to this,” I hiss.
“Wyatt’s having a rough time. Physically and mentally. He needs help.”
“So, hire someone,” I tell him, staring at the screen door lying in the grass.
Wasn’t that attached to the house earlier? I can’t remember. My brain feels like a bell jar dropped over it, my thoughts soft and fuzzy. I massage my temple with one hand, wishing I’d grabbed my water bottle on the way out.
“I tried,” Jacob says. “Two different people. Wyatt chased them off.”
This does not shock me. “With a pitchfork or just his personality?”
Jacob ignores this. “He needs more of a...personal touch.”
I laugh. Loudly. “There will be zero personal touching. I mean, not that I’m staying at all. But I don’t see how you thought I would be a good option.”
“You’re qualified. Because you’re a medical professional,” Jacob continues as though reading a list of why he thinks this is a good idea.
To be clear, it’s not.
“I’m anelementary school nurse.” Usually I’m making the opposite argument, reminding people that yes, I do have an actual degree in nursing, and yes, Iama medical professional. “Also, you know Wyatt hates me,” I point out.
I don’t say that the feeling is mutual. I don’t need to. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Wyatt and I do not get along. My brother doesn’t even try to argue this point. He only sighs.
“I’ll pay you.”
“It’s not about money.”
Iwantto mean the words. I really want to. But I’m already feeling my resolve crumble.
It’s a Pavlovian response for anyone working in education. Money is always an issue, and most of my teacher friends work other part-time jobs or, at the very least, work over the summer.
If Jacob is offering compensation, he’ll pay far more than what I’d make at school. Plus, trying to engage students over video chat while they’re actually playingMinecraftor texting isn’t my idea of a summer vacation.
Working for Jacob would mean less tutoring. Ornotutoring.
But more of Wyatt.
The thing is, I’ve wanted to get out of my apartment for years. Plenty of people live in apartments. But at almost twenty-seven, I want my own place. I don’t feel like a real adult when I share walls with college students who play YUNGBLUD until three o’clock in the morning.
Those neighbors are the only reason I know who YUNGBLUD evenis. Same with Dua Lipa and Jelly Roll.
Sleepless nights and musical introductions aside, I want out of my apartment. It’s a small goal. But where most people think of life like a ladder—full of rungs to climb, steps upward leading to more successes in some distant future—all I want is to have a little space that’s my own.
I don’t need a big house or a big life. Just something small and mine. A small life with small goals isn’t a bad thing—this is what I keep explaining to Toni when she tells me toLive a littleandDream bigandCome out, it’s a Friday night!
On an elementary school nurse’s salary, a house is dreaming big—financially speaking.
I’ve obsessively scoured real estate websites for years, makingnote of areas with cute homes that are also close to my school but notcompletelyout of the realm of financial possibility.
