Page 33 of If All Else Sails
“Vintage.”
Normally, if Wyatt said something like this, it would come out snappish. But he’s looking at me with that goofy grin on his face again.
When he smiles...saying he’s attractive is not an objective observation anymore. I’m not acknowledging it. I’mfeelingit.
This reminds me of my favorite episode ofThe Office, where Pam and Dwight bond only because he has a concussion. If Wyatt kept a spray bottle in the car like the one Jim uses while driving Dwight to the hospital, I’d totally spray Wyatt right now.
Not because he’s doing something wrong. But because I don’t like the way his smile makes my stomach twist.
I need him to snap out of it. I don’t want to get used to this version of him or how it’s affecting me. Because it’s not who he is. He’ll go right back to being a grump in no time.
The Bronco bumps along the oystershell drive, which has Wyatt adjusting and hissing in pain a few times. I slow down, but he waves me on.
As I watch the cottage in the rearview, I remember whatWyatt said in the kitchen. Putting the pieces together, I’d guess Wyatt’s uncle left him the property when he died. I wonder if this has anything to do with his current situation and the lack of care about his own health and recovery. Jacob never mentioned it, which makes me wonder if he even knew.
I reach the end of the drive, turn onto the gravel road, and am forced to stop both thinking and driving.
By a herd of pigs.
Not small, pink piglets either. There is not a Wilbur in the bunch. These are gigantic exhibits of porcine mass. Dark gray, almost black, and with so many fat rolls on their heads that I can’t see their eyes. Which I assume are beady.
“Whatisthis?” I ask. “Because it looks like the start of a horror film.”
Wyatt groans. “Neighbor pigs,” he mumbles. “His fence is always broken, so they’re somewhat free range.”
“Free-range pigs aren’t a thing, Wyatt.”
Or are they? Perhaps I spoke with too much confidence. I don’t know much aboutfree-rangeanything, aside from the fact that free-range eggs are just slightly out of my price range.
“Are they mutant pigs?” I ask. “They’re massive. And I thought pigs came in pink. Not black.”
“X-pigs,” he says with a giggle. “Like X-Men...but pigs.”
Conversations with fever-high Wyatt are turning out to be quite fun. Too bad this is the exception to his personality. I wonder if he’ll remember any of this?
“Or zombie pigs,” I suggest. “They look like they could be hungry for brains.”
“Pigs are highly intelligent,” Wyatt says, his tone suddenly quite reasonable.
There is nothing reasonable or acceptable about this entire situation.
“You’re delusional. On several counts.” I roll down my window. “Shoo, piggies! Go sooey somewhere else!”
Testing the waters, I inch the car forward and give the horn a light tap. No sound comes out, so I press a little harder. An excessively loud sound blares, possibly rupturing one or both of my eardrums.
I gasp, jamming my foot on the brake pedal.
The pigs are undeterred, barely flinching, and Wyatt glares.
“What’s your problem?” he demands.
“What’s yourhorn’sproblem?” I snap back. “Is it trying to compensate for something? Tiny tires? A V4 engine? Being an SUV without four-wheel drive?”
“I didn’t know it would be so loud.”
“Maybe it’s compensating for your negative attitude,” I grumble. “It didn’t scare the pigs, so any other ideas?”
“Just pull forward slowly. They’ll move.” He sounds confident, as though pig traffic is a common occurrence. Maybe it is.
