Page 29 of If All Else Sails
Even so, that wasn’t as uncomfortable as the time I went to Atlanta for a school nurse conference and saw Wyatt’s face was on a larger-than-life-size advertisement on the MARTA platform. Some fellow nurses and I were waiting for the train to take us from our hotel area to a shopping mall after the day’s sessions. I happened to casually turn around...and then screamed.
Because Wyatt’s giant, attractive, familiar face—and not so familiar but just as giant and attractive bare chest—wereright therein black and white.
It was an ad for a watch, and he woreonlya watch, the photo stopping near his hips. He stared out with the kind of eyes that follow you, his hand with the watch casually resting on his opposite shoulder. My fellow teachers all laughed and catcalled once they realized I hadn’t screamed because I was in danger.
Then they made me take pictures of them leaning up against the ad. One of the youngest, who I think had been hitting the minibar hard beforehand, pretended to lick his abs, which made me distinctly uncomfortable for a lot of reasons.
I refused to be in a picture.
I also refused to tell them I knew the man in the image, that he’d given me that same glower in person, and it was every bit as potent. Even with a shirt on.
Even if I’ve never admitted out loud—and rarely admit tomyself—that the man I share a mutual dislike with is also a man I find highly attractive.
It’s not attraction. Wyatt simply is attractive.
At least, until you get to know his personality.
But I’m not sure any of the other women I was at the MARTA station with would give a hoot about his personality.
“I feel better,” he says.
“Good.” I grab the first of several full trash bags sitting on the floor. There’s a puddle of goo oozing out from the bottom. I try not to think about what said goo consists of. “Where does the trash go? I didn’t see trash cans outside anywhere.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Wyatt. Don’t make me keep standing here while this leaks more toxic waste onto the floor. Tell me where the trash cans are.”
With a heaving, dramatic sigh, his tiny smile totally gone, Wyatt points one crutch toward the back door. “In the garage,” he says, and I take this to mean the building I saw earlier next to where the Bronco was parked. “But...” He trails off and doesn’t finish.
I pause with the back door open, holding the gross, goopy bag over the back steps leading out of the kitchen. “But what?”
“There’s no trash service here.”
I blink at him. “What doesthatmean?”
“It has to be driven to the dump,” he says. “Eventually.”
Wonderful.One more delightful thing I can add to my ever-growing résumé: trash woman.
As I walk to the garage, I imagine emailing an itemized list of charges for my brother. I could have it notarized. I picture him pulling out a paper that unfurls and stretches halfway across the room. That would be highly satisfying.
The garage’s two large doors swing open with loud groans. The gray paint on the wood siding is chipping away.
Inside, it’s dark, musty, and oppressively hot. I ignore the sound of something scurrying away. Yikes.
“Hello,” I call loudly. “Warning! Scary human approaching. Please disperse!”
More shu?ing noises at the back of the building, behind what looks like a car with a big tarp over it.
I quickly locate two metal cans and deposit the bag inside one, making a final trip to the kitchen for the last two bags, which thankfully are not leaking toxic ooze. Wyatt tries to argue me out of it. This time I don’t even answer him.
The garage is silent the second time I enter it. Hopefully, whatever was here will not return.
Wyatt is still standing in the doorway when I get back to the kitchen. I grab a handful of paper towels to clean the sludge from the floor. “I think you have a creature living in your garage. Know anything about that?”
“No,” he says. “What kind of creature?”
“I didn’t see it, just heard it scurrying around.”
