Page 60 of If All Else Sails
“Nope.”
“A ribbon?” he asks. “You do this for elementary school kids. Surely you’ve got a stash of rewards for them.”
“My good patients get lollipops.”
“I’ll take a lollipop.”
I smile at the mental image of Wyatt with a lollipop in his mouth. “Sadly, I did not pack lollipops. Even if I did, you wouldn’t deserve one with all your arguing and the way you keep jerking your hand away.” He pouts. “If you’re lucky, your reward will be a splinter-free hand. But to get that, you’ll have tostop moving.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around this—the fact that Wyatt has a whole other personality hiding beneath his perpetually grumpy exterior. There’s evenhumorunder there. I wonder what else I’ll find if I keep excavating. I doubt I’ll see the uninhibited, goofy version of him brought out by his fever again.
And that may not have really beenhim. I mean, calling me pretty? Pretending he couldn’t lift his leg so I’d have to touch him? None of that seems like the Wyatt I’ve known for years. The phrase isin vino veritas, notinfeververitas. It felt more like a glitch in the Matrix than the truth seeping out.
All that aside, Wyatt is alittlesofter now. And I’ll take it. Anything to make this unplanned and definitely unwanted wrench in my summer more tolerable. Maybe even enjoyable.
The whole idea of enjoying time with Wyatt sends a skittering sort of worry up my spine.
I may enjoy the banter we’ve had going, but it’s best to keep Wyatt in the neat box I’ve assigned him to. He’s my brother’s best friend and client. A surly grump who doesn’t like me.And, finally, an athlete, which, for me, comes with its own box wrapped in caution tape and barbed wire with a neon-yellow Danger sign.
If I’m being honest, already the few days I’ve spent with Wyatt have dismantled all those things. Snipping through the barbed wire, pulling off the caution tape, unplugging the sign. There’s a crowbar on the edge of the box, working it open.
No one is more shocked by this than me.
Wyatt hisses as I dig the tweezers in and come out with an intact splinter. The last few kept breaking, which meant it took longer and I had to root around more. I know that didn’t feel good. Amazing how something as tiny as a sliver of wood can cause so much discomfort.
“Check this one out,” I tell him, holding the tweezers closer to him. “All in one piece. See what happens when you stay still?”
He only grunts.
I drop the piece into a cracked white coffee mug I found in the kitchen. Once I finish his hands, I should probably check his knees. He didn’t mention anything about them, but if he landed on hands and knees when he fell, there might be splinters there too.
Apparently, these floors aren’t to be messed with. I’ve been walking around barefoot but probably need to use my flip-flops. Or buy some slippers. I try to grasp the end of the next one, and Wyatt’s fingers close around my hand holding the tweezers.
“That’s good enough.”
I level him with a look, and he sighs, releasing me and opening his hand again. “You know what you remind me of?” I ask.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“The crocodile who had a toothache.”
He furrows his brow. “What?”
“It’s a children’s book about a big, powerful, scary crocodilewho is totally debilitated by one tiny tooth. Or, I guess, onebigtooth. But still.”
Wyatt’s hand is heavy in mine. Warm. His skin is smooth, other than the calluses. I’ve stopped myself more than once from tracing over them, my curiosity urging me to map them out. Or to ask about them. I’m sure they come from handling a hockey stick for years.
“What happens to the crocodile in the story?” Wyatt asks.
I drop Wyatt’s hand for a moment, stretching out my fingers before letting my hands flop into my lap. Suddenly, I’m aware of how close we are. I was in professional mode, focused only on the splinters.
Now...our closeness feels far too intimate. Especially with his heavy-lidded, sleepy but interested eyes and mussed hair. The fact that we’re both dressed in pajamas only adds to the effect. I tug my shorts down my legs.
But I can’t back up now without drawing attention. It’s no closer than we were in his bedroom when he flipped me on my back and hovered over me in a way that sent a tidal wave of fluttery feelings through me. As though my whole body became a sanctuary for butterflies who were performing some kind of synchronized flight. It was both pleasant and mildly nauseating.
While I was rooting around in my bag for my headlamp and tweezers, I shut down the butterfly sanctuary, mentally hanging a Closed sign on the door. Of all the men in the world, Wyatt isn’t one I can feel that way around.
This moment in the living room is thankfully missing the tension I’m sure was one-sided in Wyatt’s room. But there’s a different kind of intimacy in our closeness and conversation as I tell Wyatt children’s stories and answer his questions about me. Mentally, I add this to the charges I plan to send my brother.
