Page 77 of If All Else Sails
I roll over a little, turning so I can use both hands.
“I don’t remember the details,” I say. “Don’t you hate that? Like—your brain is soooo intensely focused on something it wakes you in a panic, but when you try to remember it, all you get are cobwebs and smoke.”
“Mmm,” Wyatt says, and I’m not sure whether he’s agreeing or just responding to my nails on his skin.
“Thank you for coming to check on me. Sorry I showed my thanks by kicking you.”
“You’re making up for it now,” he says. After a pause, he asks, “Are you stressed about the trip?”
As I think about this, I switch up my scratching, moving in small circles rather than long strokes.
“I don’t feel stressed, but maybe.”
“You seemed stressed yesterday,” he says, and there’s the smallest hint of amusement in his voice. “About the shoes.”
I drop my head back, staring at the sweep of ceiling above us.
Theshoes.
Yesterday, after double-checking Wyatt’s list and then my list—because I’m the kind of person who needs her own list— and finding we had everything packed on the boat other than my small bag of toiletries, I had a sudden moment of admittedly overblown panic.
The galley is as stocked as it can be with food. Canned tuna, chicken, beans, and vegetables; boxes of pasta, rice, and couscous—which Wyatt frowned about, but I swore to make him love—spices, cooking oil, and plenty of water. My clothes are in my cabin, along with books I ordered from Amazon since we’ll be gone too long for library books. The journal I bought especially for the trip is next to my pillow with fresh pens—my favorite brand that never leave ink blots and also smell amazing. Plus I’ve got my chartbook and guide to the Intracoastal— a.k.a. the Ditch—which have been my trusty textbooks.
And while I was putting one of those books in a cabinet, I realized one thing I didn’t have: boat shoes.
I found Wyatt, who was fiddling with the GPS up on deck.
“I don’t have boat shoes,” I said. When he didn’t immediately look at me,I grabbed him by the chin and turned his face toward mine. His gray eyes were wide with surprise as I repeated more slowly, almost threateningly, “I don’t have boat shoes.”
Wyatt kept his gaze fixed on mine, his lids lowering slightly and his expression softening. “You don’t need a certain kind of shoes, Rookie.”
“Yes, I do. Everyone does. You do.”
I let go of his chin then, embarrassed at the way I’d grabbed him, and looked pointedly down at his worn, loafery shoes. Boat shoes. “I need those.”
“My shoes won’t fit you, I’m afraid.”
“Notyours. But shoes like that. Sailing shoes.”
“Your tennis shoes and those sporty sandals are just fine.”
“But they’re not made for boating. What if I slip? What if they—”
“Josie.”
Wyatt shocked me into silence when he took my hand in his. He didn’t link our fingers but curled his whole hand around mind, squeezing firmly.
What was I worried about, again?
“I promise you—it’s going to be okay. And if you’ve changed your mind about the trip, we don’t have to go.”
“What? No! I want to go! This is just about shoes.”
“Is it?”
The way he asked was so kind. But also mean. Because I didn’t want to examine what he was suggesting. Easier to be worried about shoes than an almost monthlong sailing trip with a man whom, a month ago, I would have said I couldn’t stand and vice versa.
His question made me close my mouth, swallowing hard as I focused on the warmth of his palm against mine, the firm clasp of his fingers.
