Page 35 of If All Else Sails
My hands automatically close around the taped-up end. It’s a little sticky. “You really want me to go chase the pigs with this?”
“I would, but I’m currently not a good candidate for pig management.” He gestures to his boot.
I don’t think I’veeverbeen or will be a good candidate for pig management. Unless we’re talking about how many slices of bacon I can eat in one sitting.
I try to hand back the stick. Wyatt doesn’t take it. “I don’t think this falls under the purview of nurse and driver.”
“Then I guess we can wait them out while I die from scarlet fever.” He closes his eyes and slumps back against the seat.
“You don’t have scarlet fever,” I scoff, but I study him.
The coherence of the last few minutes appears to have exhausted him. He’s slumping again, chin to chest. Cheeks red. Sweat trickling down the side of his face. Even with his body relaxed, his expression is pained.
Wyatt probably has a high pain tolerance, given his sport of choice, which means he could be in worse shape than he’s letting on.
I glance out at the pigs.
Do pigs bite?
Not willing to take the chance, I twist around, locate a helmet in the back with Wyatt’s gear, and pull it over my head. The visor part over my eyes is a little smudged, but it’s good enough.
“I don’t think the helmet is necessary,” Wyatt says.
His comment only makes me want to wear it more. It’s a little big and has a smell that isn’t altogether pleasant, but I’m committed now.
“Safety first,” I tell Wyatt, adjusting the helmet but not cinching the strap.
Before he has a chance to respond or I have a chance to chicken out, I put the Bronco in Park and open the door. I almost hit Wyatt in the jaw with the end of the stick and bump my head on the way out, making me glad I’ve got the helmet, but I eventually manage to extract myself.
And now, I’m standing on the road, facing down the pigs.
An erratic giggle escapes me. This whole day has been a study in the ridiculous. From start to now. And we’ve barely passed lunchtime. Wait—have we passed lunchtime? I honestly don’t know what time it is, but I’m suddenly starving and can only think about bacon.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Wyatt calls. “You shouldn’t be scared. You’ve got a helmet.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“I would never.”
Gripping the hockey stick like a baseball bat, I advance toward the front of the vehicle. The pigs are unperturbed. If I couldn’t see them breathing and occasionally flicking their tails to dissuade flies, I might wonder if they were dead where they stood.
“Okay, piggies,” I say, lifting the stick to my shoulder like I’m ready to swing. “I’d really rather not have to use this stick. Mostly because I don’t know how to use this. But also because I love animals. I alsoeatanimals—”
There’s a snort behind me, and I turn, realizing that Wyatt is leaning out of his window, watching with an amused expression. Though his eyes are half lidded, like it’s too much work to keep them open.
“Stop threatening and start swinging,” he advises. “And if you don’t want to be stampeded, maybe don’t talk about your love of bacon.”
“Who knew you had any sense of humor buried under your grumpy exterior?”
He mutters something that sounds like “You don’t know a lot of things about me” and then ducks back inside the car. Immediately, I feel more alone.
Just me and the pigs.
Sweat trickles down my back, and the stick feels heavy in my hands. I give it a test swing, nowhere near hitting the pigs but in their general direction.
Finally, some movement. The pigs go from silent, slothful statues to tense and jumpy in an instant. They still don’t get off the road, but now they’re stamping their feet and bumping into each other. Snorting ensues.
Progress!
