Page 22 of If All Else Sails
“Idon’t.”
Josie turns the book toward me, cover facing out. “Will you require a bedtime story as part of my services?”
“No.”
The idea of Josie, curled up next to me, reading, almost makes my heart explode.
“But this looks like the perfect book to inspire good dreams and good sleep,” she teases.
I am not someone who blushes, but I feel heat creeping up my neck. “My sleep is fine.” Needing to change the subject, I say, “The sheets are clean.”
She sets the book down and wanders to the window. This room has the best view in the house, facing the water. It’s the room and the bed I grew up sleeping in, long summers spent waking to diamonds of light on the water. When I moved in last month, I chose the other room. It felt a little strange sleeping in Tom’s room. But it would have felt even stranger to sleep where I always did. I was afraid one morning I’d wake with hope, forgetting he wasn’t in the other room.
I’m glad Josie will get to wake up with the water view.
She glances around the room once more. “None of this decor looks like you. Did you buy the house fully furnished or something? Is it a rental?”
“No.” I clear my throat, ready to tell her it was my uncle’s house. But then I don’t. “What kind of decor would you expect me to have?” I ask, curious.
Josie tilts her head. “I guess I don’t know. But not this.”
I only realize I’m sagging against the doorframe when Josie’s gaze narrows in on me. First she scans my face, then darts a look down at my boot. She doesn’t miss much.
I wish she did.
“Stop,” I say, the word coming out harsher than I mean it to. I sweep a hand across my forehead, wiping away the sweat.
Her eyes snap up to meet mine. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me like I’m something broken you need to fix.”
She holds up both hands. “Not trying to fix you. Pretty sure that’s way beyond my skill set.”
I snort. Even though she’s making light of things, it’s the truth.
“But at some point, if I’m going to stay,” she continues, “Iwillneed the details on your injury and will need to talk to your doctor about—”
“You’re not staying.”
She sighs, then places her fists on her hips, drawing up her shoulders and a serious expression to match. She’s clearly so exhausted that the look is almost comical. “Look. I don’t want to be here. You obviously don’t want me here.”
I say nothing.
“But my idiot brother seems to think youdoneed me here. You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not an insult; it’s a fact.”
“Thanks again.”
“Based on the little I’ve seen, you need support right now. Maybe not a live-in nurse who specializes in strep throat and skinned knees. Butsomeone. You have to know isolating yourself like this is counterproductive to recovery. You do want to recover, yeah?”
“Yes,” I say.
The word leaves my mouth, sounding and feeling strange. Not just because I’m not sure it’s true, but because I’m suddenly lightheaded.
What was the question?
