Page 32 of If All Else Sails
His eyes blink open, unfocused at first. Then his gaze locks with mine. He smiles again. “Hi.”
“Wyatt, you’ve got to get in the car. I can’t lift you.”
“M’kay. Keys are in my pocket.” Heavy breaths punctuate each word. “Here.”
He thrusts his hand into his pocket, nearly taking down his shorts, then tries to pass me the keys. But my hands are full of unwieldy man, and the keys fall to the driveway.
He frowns, looking like he’s about to grab for them.
“Leave them,” I say firmly. “I’ll get them in a sec. You—get in the car.”
Speaking firmly seems to be the most effective way to get him moving, and though it’s awkward and he almost slides right back out, he mostly makes it into the passenger seat.
I think of all the ways I’m going to kill my brother. And also how much these tasks will be worth on my itemized list.
Half carrying Wyatt to the car: a hundred dollars. No—five hundred. Hoisting him into the seat is another two-fifty.
Listening to his feverish rambling and having my face pressed into his cheek will earn me overtime.
“Can you lift your leg in there so I can shut the door?”
“Too tired,” he says, lips barely moving.
With a sigh, I put both hands behind his knee and gingerly lift, being careful with the boot. I haven’t had a chance yet to look up the injury he mentioned, the one that sounds like a woman’s name.
While we’re at the hospital, I can get caught up on exactly what I’m dealing with. I couldn’t connect to Wi-Fi at Wyatt’s house, and the internet on my phone is too slow without it. Maybe I’ll even get to talk to his doctor and get the number for his PT.
The moment I’ve got his leg and foot safely inside, his eyesopen. There’s that unfamiliar smile again, this time a little mischievous.
“I was faking,” he whispers dramatically.
“What?” I’m tempted to smack him again, but for wholly different reasons this time. Also, there’s no way he’s faking the fever and this whole mood shift.
“About my leg. I just wanted you to touch me.” He wiggles his leg as though to prove his point, still grinning before his smile fades and his eyes close again. “I like it when you touch me, and you never do.”
I stare for a moment at the stranger in front of me, then slam the car door on him becausewhat is happening?
Wyatt is fever-flirting with me.That’swhat’s happening. He’s making it sound like I’m not in the running for his least favorite person on the planet.
And it’s breaking my brain.
Though I need to get my purse and his crutches, I pick up the keys and walk around to the driver’s side first to turn on the AC. I’m not about to leave Wyatt in a hot car. Even if it would be an exact sort of revenge.
A minute later, I’ve shoved the crutches into the back next to a bunch of hockey gear and am reaching for the driver’s side door. It opens with a creak, a sound that reminds me of my childhood. Newer cars don’t make these sorts of sounds; they probably aren’t even made of the same material. This door feels weighty in my hand, the whole car like a tank, really. I like it.
Unlike the house, which is in a sad state of disrepair, it’s obvious that painstaking care has gone into restoring the vehicle. I find myself wondering whether Wyatt worked on it or just bought it like this.
I adjust the seat and mirrors, then catch Wyatt watching me.No smile right now, but his gaze is softer, not the usual flinty gray.
“You like vintage cars, huh?” I ask.
Wyatt makes a choking sound that turns into a laugh. “Vintage? I’m older than this car.”
“Oh.”
I attempt some math in my head. Fail. Try to think what year this car might be. Fail. How can I not know how old my brother’s best friend is? I always associate the two of them together, often forgetting Wyatt graduated from college before Jacob. Which would make Wyatt five years older than me? Six?
“How old are you, anyway?”
