Page 42 of If All Else Sails
Just in case.
Jacob might have trusted Wyatt enough to bring him home, but it wouldn’t have been the first time his trust proved misplaced.
I woke up disoriented and very thirsty somewhere around two a.m. and tiptoed down to the kitchen where I ran into something in the darkness.
Not something. Someone.Twosomeones actually—Wyatt and Grocery Store Girl.
For a few seconds, she and I formed a Wyatt sandwich. Me smushed up against his broad back, my nose full of what had to be an expensive cologne, and GSG plastered to his front. Which I’m sure was equally broad and smelled just as expensive.
My sleep-addled brain fired off quick warning signals likeThis is a person, not a piece of furniturealong with a fewDoes not computemessages, but for a few seconds, I stayed frozen against Wyatt’s spine, trying to make sleepy sense of it.
The situation, not his spine.
I was already in the process of stepping back when Jacob turned on the kitchen lights, leaving me blinking in confusion at Wyatt and his—or rather,Jacob’s—lady friend. My stomach felt less like a pit and more like an open wound.
I couldn’t even look at the man I had felt a sense of camaraderie with and maybe even a spark of attraction toward earlier. He showed me how broken my radar was.
What can only be described as a mild ruckus ensued. Jacob said, “Nadia?” followed by, “Dude. Seriously?”
At which point Grocery Store Girl—Nadia, I guess— slipped out the back door, and I hoped to escape through a hole in the floor, which unfortunately did not materialize.
Dad appeared in the doorway with a baseball bat and no shirt, subjecting us all to the shag carpet on his chest and belly. Mom was behind him, squinting without her glasses and yelling at Dad to put on a shirt before he scared the children.
The only thing Wyatt could say for himself was “She came on to me.”
Considering that I was the onlyshein the room at the moment, both my parents’ heads swiveled in my direction, multiplying the awkwardness by an infinitesimal amount.
I really,deeplywished for that hole in the floor right then. Except, instead of using it for my own desperate escape, now I wanted to push Wyatt into it.
I didn’t think the situation could get any more embarrassing. But I realized you should never, ever think to yourself:It can’t get worse than this.
Because right then Wyatt took a huge step away from me and said, “Not yoursister.”
Maybe he meant to provide clarity. But the horrified look on his face combined with his word choice and the particular emphasis onyour sisterplummeted me to new depths of humiliation. Especially considering how I had sort of thought we were—well, I don’t know what I thought we were doing when he shared looks with me, handed me a napkin, and threw popcorn with me. When I thought about all those things, listed out that way, they all seemed so stupid.
Iseemed stupid.
So, I did what anyone else in my situation would have done. I said, “I wouldnever,” and then ran for my room.
Jacob forgave Wyatt. Or he at least made peace with the wholestealing the woman Jacob plucked from the supermarket like a head of lettucething.
Me? I made zero peace with the way my brother’s friend could hook up with the same girl the same night. Or the way Wyatt could build rapport with me, then so quickly and thoroughly dismiss me. From what felt like the start of a friendship maybe, but also from the realm of any eventual romantic possibility.
Not that I wanted romantic possibilities—with him or anyone else. Especially notthatyear.
But did Wyatt have to sound so disgusted by the idea of me?
I returned to college early the next day rather than staying for the whole weekend as planned.
The next year, Wyatt went on to play for the team that had drafted him while he was still in college. Minnesota or Wisconsin or somewhere—I don’t remember. Just that it felt far, and I was glad to have half the country between us. Jacob graduated and started working his way up the steep ladder at a killer agency, using his relationship with Wyatt to skip ahead a few rungs.
After that, whenever I was forced to see Wyatt, I kept my distance. Just like I always did with athletes.
And yet...Wyatt keeps popping into my life like some kind of recurring rash. Never pleasant. Always leaving me with a lingering itch.
But as I trail behind him now into the first aisle of the Rivah Maht, I have to admit I’ve maybe softened just a little bit toward him. I definitely feel more comfortable around him.
“You coming?” he demands, turning and giving me a look that would kill a fake plant.
