Page 28 of If All Else Sails
When he laughed and said, “It doesn’t matter,” the red flag unfurled and slowly started to wave.
I went into the date feeling more nervous and anxious than I’d normally be, which is saying something. As it turned out, I had cause.
Creativeaccording to pirate-hoop Joe meant going to a place with giant canvases rolled out on the floor for us to paint—by getting naked, covering ourselves in paint, and then rolling around.
Which, obviously, I was not interested in doing on a first—orany—date.
Toni is still making it up to me by bringing over dinner from our favorite Italian place once a month.
If anything, I’m far less likely to dive back into the dating pool now. Not after that belly flop.
In any case, not having a boyfriend, pet, or plant doesn’t mean it’s an easy decision to stay and take care of Wyatt. I have a life. A good friend. Plans to read my way through the women of literature.
“That was out of line,” Jacob says, his version of an apology.
“It was. Even if you’re right—I don’t have any plants.” He chuckles, which I ignore and continue on. “And I guess I’ll stay. Not indefinitely. Just until he’s...better.”
“I know it’s a sacrifice no matter what,” Jacob says, though I’m not sure my wonderful but also very selfish brother understands the word. “Thank you, Josie. For real.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t told you how much it’s going to cost you.”
I’m just shoving laundry into the machine, underwear included— and no, I don’t want to talk about it—when a voice in the doorway startles me.
“You don’t have to do that.”
I scream and bang my elbow into the washing machine. Wyatt stands in the doorway, leaning on his crutches and looking...well, at least upright, which is an improvement from an hour ago when I last checked on him.
I tiptoed in after my call with Jacob and found Wyatt in the same position he’d been in when I left him. According to the digital thermometer I always travel with, his fever was down a little, though 102 is still higher than I’d like. I figured I should give the ibuprofen a little more time to kick in before insisting on the hospital.
And if I allowed myself a minute to examine and appreciate Wyatt’s sleeping form—the thick golden stubble I really think he should keep; the full lips, slightly parted; the thick lashes brushing his cheekbones—well. No one can prove a thing.
Now, remembering the way I stared at him makes me blush.
It also makes me irrationally angry. With myself, with Wyatt, with Jacob. With the world, really.
I yank the earbud out of my right ear, which stops the true crime podcast that’s been playing. “You scared me,” I say, as though it’s not obvious. “I was listening to a podcast.”
“About what?” he asks.
I blink. Because Wyatt is asking me a question. Has he ever asked me a question about me or my life?
I don’t trust it. “About stuff,” I say vaguely. “How are you feeling?”
Wyatt doesn’t smile with his mouth, but I swear, his eyes are laughing. I’m not sure I’ve seen Wyatthappybefore. It’s unnerving.
“It’s a true crime podcast, isn’t it?” He ignores my question. “That’s why you got scared. You’re obsessed with me and my murder cottage.”
If possible, my blush reaches higher. I swear, I feel it singeing the roots of my hair.
“It’s a podcast about a court case,” I say, knowing full well I sound defensive. I’m not lying. Itisabout a court case. An ongoing one that just so happens to be for a murderer. “Why are you out of bed? You look...”
He looks less feverish, his eyes more focused. But he also doesn’t quite seem like himself. I can’t pinpoint exactly why that is. Maybe it’s the light in his eyes, the trace of amusement that’s so un-Wyatt. I catch myself staring and look down, only to realize I’m still clutching a pile of his laundry to my chest. Including his underwear.
I shove it into the washer and slam the door.
When I turn back, there is the barest hint of a smile on his face. Even sick and unwashed, the man could be the face of just about any brand campaign. In fact, I think he had this exact expression on the boxer briefs ad he did a few years ago. Iremember tossing the magazine across the room, feeling like I’d actually walked in on him like that.
There’s something completely disconcerting about seeing the face of a person you actually know in an advertisement. Especially when they’re wearing a lot of body oil but not a lot of clothing.
