Page 17 of If All Else Sails
I realize Josie is off the phone and marching back toward the house—where I’m watching her from the window like some kind of creeper.
But as I try to step away, I forget my foot injury, like I do multiple times every day. I stumble as pain shoots through my arch. Grabbing the wall next to the front door for support, I take several hissing breaths through gritted teeth.
I managed to knock over my crutches in the process, so I can’t even grab them to make a quick escape.
There are three sharp knocks on the door, and I do my best to force my expression into some semblance of normalcy before I open the door.
“You didn’t need to knock,” I say.
Josie shrugs, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. “You called the cops when I set foot on your property. Who knows what you’d do if I walked inside without knocking?” she says airily.
There’s an awkward moment where we both try to close the front door while I’m essentially in the way. Since I’ve dropped my crutches, my movements are limited to hopping.
“Wyatt, just move and let me close the door,” Josie insists, and though everything about this feels like embarrassment upon embarrassment, I hop a little.
The room is sweltering again, probably from having the door open. Even just a few moments and I can feel sweat trickling down my spine.
I think I can smell myself. Or maybe that’s the trash in the kitchen.
Possibly a combination of both.
“Why are your crutches on the floor?”
“I dropped them,” I say and bend, reaching for them, almost falling over in the process. Josie lurches forward and grabs my arm, steadying me. Her fingers are a brand, and heat licks along my skin all the way up to my scalp.
Josie’s brown eyes snap to mine.
She looks surprised by—I’m not sure what, actually. But the surprise quickly shifts to something more apologetic. Something bordering on pity.
How humiliating.
This whole thing—from the very start of my injury until this new low point—has been nothing but a heaping slice of humble pie topped with disappointment and a weird sense of shame.
I hate the taste.
“Wyatt?” she says, and I realize I’m frozen here, Josie’s fingertips still curled around my bicep.
I jerk my arm away, more forcefully than I mean to, needing space, needing to breathe again, needing to separate myself from her touch before I go and do something stupid like get used to it.
But she clearly misreads the way I pull back because her expression closes down. Once again I’ve made her feel bad. Josie turns away, bending to pick up my crutches.
She holds them out to me. “Here.”
I take them.
“How’s Jacob?” I ask, though her brother is the last person whose well-being I care about right now.
Josie sinks down on the couch and brings the water bottle to her lips. I force my eyes away from her throat as she swallows.
“You know—same old same old. Scheming and plotting with the quick and brutal efficiency of a bulldozer while assuming the whole world revolves around him.” Setting the empty bottle down on the table, she rolls her eyes.
“So typical Jacob, then.”
“Yep.”
This may be the first time ever that Josie and I have agreed on anything. She seems to realize it the same time I do.
Blinking rapidly, she gives her head a little shake, then clears her throat. “This is a nice property.”
