Page 40 of If All Else Sails
I could live here.The stray thought slams into me and makes me jump to my feet and head inside.
Because no—Icannotlive here. At least not more than however long it takes to get Wyatt back on his feet, crutch-free. And if I have my way, it will be as few days as possible.
First step: Get Wyatt to his follow-up appointments.
Which sounds deceptively simple and turns out to be stupid hard.
“No,” Wyatt says simply when I ask to speak to his doctor.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean,” he says, slowly, like spacing out the syllables will help me understand, “no.”
We’re having this argument, which sounds very much like the kind I’d have with one of the students at my school, in the kitchen. After my walk and a quick shower, I sat down and shoved the blueprints out of the way to write a grocery list. Adire necessity considering the barren state of the kitchen and of my stomach.
Wyatt crutched in a few minutes later, looking disheveled in the way only very good-looking people can. Meanwhile, I’ve got wet hair starting to frizz and clothes wrinkled from being stuffed in a suitcase. I’m assuming there’s no iron in the house.
“Wyatt, that’s why my brother has me staying here. My job is to make sure you see the doctor and—”
“No.”
“Fine,” I tell him. “I won’t talk to your doctor.Youtalk to him. Make an appointment, and I’ll drive you.”
“No,” he repeats.
“I don’t accept your no,” I tell him loftily in a case-closed kind of tone. Even though I’m positive he can out-stubborn me. “We’ll circle back to this conversation later.”
Because it’s too early for this, especially since the only caffeine I’ve had since I arrived in Kilmarnock was a disgusting cup of hospital coffee I practically had to bribe a nurse to bring me.
“But for now, I’m going to the store.” I set down my pencil and fold my grocery list.
And then I almost fall out of my chair when Wyatt says, “I’ll come with you.”
At Wyatt’s insistence, we end up at the Rivah Maht. I find myself muttering the name over and over in a very bad Boston accent as I walk inside, Wyatt crutching along behind me.
Because this is a thing I do now—I share a house and grocery shop with Wyatt Jacobs.
The teen girl behind the nearest register looks up from amagazine. She has platinum hair and three eyebrow rings. On a scale of enthusiasm, her expression is about a one-point-five out of ten.
“Welcome to RiverMart.” She pronounces both words in the proper way, not how the name is spelled, vindictively saying ther’s. Picking up a paper, she holds it out to me. “Map?”
“A map? Of...Kilmarnock?” I ask.
The main part of the town is like six blocks, if I’m being generous. Maybe more like three.
“A map of the store,” she clarifies. “Take it. Trust me.”
Before I can explain that I have, in fact, been inside a grocery store in my life, Wyatt appears next to me. The girl’s expression shifts to recognition. “Oh,” she says, and snatches the map out of reach. “Guess you don’t need this.”
I don’t think I needed it anyway, considering I’m not some grocery store novice. But now I kind ofwantthe map. Too bad the employee has disappeared behind one of several empty registers and is flipping through a tabloid magazine.
“Do you come here often?” I ask Wyatt as we move past the register, then huff out a breath when he arches an eyebrow. “I mean literally. Not like a pickup line.”
“Yes” is his enlightening answer.
The man has mastered single syllables. He should sell an online training course.
Briefly, I wish for his antibiotic to fail. I vastly prefer feverish Wyatt to this closed-off version. Which is, I guess, his default setting.
