Page 71 of If All Else Sails
Dr. Parminder leans closer to Josie. “I can be professional in this context and still take you on a date. Like the separation of church and state.”
His grin takes on a flirty edge I’d like to remove with my elbow. If we were on the ice, I’d check him the first chance I got. Right into the boards. Hard.
Now, I stand here, trying to cool my rage into a tight ball, as he waggles his dark eyebrows and says, “I can be asunprofessional as you’d like when we’re not in this setting.”
Forget a clean check. The gloves would come off for this guy.
Josie and I exchange a glance. I don’t miss the way her lip curls slightly. Neither does my physical therapist, whose smile falters for the first time all day.
Sayonara, Dr. Dimples.
He drops his hand and takes a small step back. I take one forward, though I’m not sure Josie notices.
“I’d better not,” she says. “But thank you for the offer. Have a good day!”
She says this last part too brightly, her voice bordering on manic as she waves once, then speed-walks right out the front doors of the building, not looking back once.
Dr. Dimples wears the expression of a man who doesn’t hear the wordnovery often.
I can’t stop myself from shooting him a smug little smirk as I follow Josie out, more relieved than I want to admit.
Chapter17
You Don’t Drive Boats
Josie
Wyatt and I fall into a new daily routine over the next few weeks. One that includes my morning walks and nightly bingeing of a drama about first responders. Plus twice-weekly PT visits where I wait in the car to avoid Dr. Parminder. Every spare moment I get, I’m cramming sailing information like I’m studying for the most important exam of my life. I’m still waiting to actually get on the boat though.
Sometimes I wake up with boat terminology on my lips: aft, windward, keel, starboard, tacking, lines.
Of all the vocabulary words I’ve learned, my favorite is baggywrinkle. Which sounds like a hobbit name but is actually a protective cover to prevent rope chafing and looks a little like a Muppet.
Wyatt just rolls his eyes when I ask about his baggywrinkles and tells me to stop studying things I don’t need to know. To which I challenge him to actually take me on his boat.
But the morning Wyatt promised we could finally get on the boat, I catch something in the garage trap.
A small creature is huddled toward the back of the wire trip, and it takes me walking right up and squinting at the mess of matted grayish-brown fur to realize it’s a dog. It cowers, but when I carefully open the trap and reach in, the little dog lets me pull him or her out. It can’t weigh more than ten pounds.
“Wow,” I say, holding it firmly but away from my body. “You smell terrible.”
It starts to shake.
“But that’s okay!” I amend. “We can handle smelly. Have you been living out here all this time, you poor thing?”
Obviously, I don’t expect the dog to answer, and I have no idea what, exactly, I’m going to do now that I’ve caught him. Her? I can only hope Wyatt doesn’t freak out. Because by the time I’ve carried it to the house, I’m already feeling protective over this stinky little pup.
“What is that?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. Probably at the smell. But maybe also at what looks like a shaking ball of matted fur with buggy eyes.
“I told you something was living in your garage! This is the something,” I tell him in my most told-you-so voice. Because Wyatt absolutely didn’t believe me when I told him there was a creature out there. Now I’m holding the stinky proof. “It’s a dog.”
“Looks like trash.”
I gasp, pulling the dog closer to my chest before the smell makes me hold it out again. “Don’t call him or her trash! Do you have an old towel? I’m taking it to the vet.”
Wyatt gets to his feet with a frown and a heavy sigh. “I’m going with you.”
Turns out the garage dog is a girl. And underneath the furthe vet shaved completely off, she’s a little bigger than a Chihuahua with a broader snout and eyes that bug out a like a pug or Boston terrier. Thankfully without the snorty breathing noises, which might have brought back too many pig memories.
