Page 45 of If All Else Sails
“Probably in the next two hours.”
“That’s fast. Where does she live?”
He pauses, then glances out the front window. “My family lives in Richmond.”
This feels like fake news. Like a statement that needs rigorous fact-checking and would come up short.
I’ve known Wyatt foryearswithout knowing this fact.Myfamily is from Richmond. Whenever Wyatt stayed overnight at our house, I got the distinct impression it was because he wasvisiting from out of town. But he had his own family somewhere nearby? This does not compute.
I swear neither Wyatt nor Jacob ever mentioned this.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I assumed Jacob did,” he says. “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t, but it’s weird to learn we are from the same place but never discussed it. I also feel more than a little guilty that I never asked him something so simple as where he’s from.
“Where did you go to high school?” I say now, like this question will make up for all the ones I never thought to ask.
“Collegiate,” he says, naming one of the elite private schools.
Immediately, I can picture it: a younger version of Wyatt in pressed khakis and worn leather Top-Siders like he’s wearing now. Even his current hair, barely curling over the collar of his shirt, has the private school vibe. Collegiate had a code for hair length, and every guy I met who went there kept theirs as long as possible, a tiny act of rich-boy rebellion.
“Where do your parents live?” I ask.
He pauses. “Windsor Farms.”
One of the oldest of old money neighborhoods. Closer to the city and snootier than even the West End of Richmond, where Collegiate is located. Windsor Farms has huge homes.Historichomes. Some even with the white historical marker. It’s the epitome of Richmond old money.
“And you’re still willing to associate with Jacob and me? Tell me the truth—is the real reason you don’t want me to meet your mom because she’ll flip if she finds out you’re hanging out with someone from the Southside?”
Wyatt rolls his eyes. “She knows where you’re from. It’s fine.” He pauses. “She’ll probably want to go to lunch at the yacht club.”
“There’s a yacht club here? Andyou’rea member?”
“Our whole family is. My parents have a place in Irvington.”
“Another little murder cottage?”
He snorts. “Hardly. More like a giant murder mansion. Without the murder.”
“Fancy.”
Not meeting my eyes, he says, “My family owns the Jacobs Restaurant Group.”
I blink at this. Everyone from Richmond knows the Jacobs Restaurant Group. They own a huge number of—duh—restaurants around the city. Many of them the finer dining establishments in trendy, historic places like Carytown and Shockoe Bottom. They’ve even expanded, adding a handful of restaurants to the booming Short Pump area, where everything is shiny and new.
If I thought the information about Wyatt living in Richmond was a lot, trying to absorb this new tidbit is like attempting to swallow a watermelon whole.
“You’reJacobs Restaurant Group?” I ask.
He makes a face. “My dad and brother run it. Not me.”
I stare openly at him, trying to reconcile this information with the man beside me. Who is, I’m coming to understand, way more of a mystery than I ever thought.
Not that I’ve spent much time pondering Wyatt’s existence. Other than the times I had to see him when he was hanging out with Jacob, Wyatt didn’t occupy much of my headspace. When we were around each other, I was mostly playing the avoidance game, not trying to figure out the grumpy enigma that is Wyatt.
Now I know he grew up with a sterling silver spoon for a pacifier and family money before he had hockey money. And when I ate at any of the popular restaurants in town, I was doing my part to fund Wyatt’s private school education.
