Page 9 of If All Else Sails
Which is true. But I’m also very happy to know Officer Eyebrows and his Boy Wonder sidekick are gone. I wouldn’t want to look at them after knowing one or both of them carried my limp body inside.
Slowly and carefully, I sit up. Thankfully, the dizziness is mild, and there are no more black spots threatening to steal my vision. But my head pounds like there’s a second heart in there, beating angrily.
I’m still not ready to look at Wyatt, so instead, I glance around the room. Despite the run-down exterior, the inside of the cottage is clean, though small and woefully in need of some TLC. We’re in a living room. The front door is just to the left of the couch where I’m seated. The hardwood floors are narrow planked and slightly warped, with water stains here and there, and the wood is darker in some places where furniture might have sat for years. It has the musty scent of an older home, but a faint, rotting smell lingers underneath.
The walls are a dingy white. No pictures or paintings, just a few nails or holes where they apparently used to hang. The windows have ratty curtains that resemble oversize doilies, a perfect companion for the faded floral furniture. The newest thing in the room is a large flat-screen television sitting on an old dresser that’s missing a few knobs.
My gaze finally lands on Wyatt. More specifically, the black boot encasing one of his feet. He’s leaning against the wall across the room, crutches propped up next to him. When I look up and meet his eyes, his gray irises are like harbingers of a storm.
It’s the same expression he always wears when he looks at me. As though I’ve somehow committed a personal affront just by my mere existence.
He looksterrible. Still unfairly handsome but really not good.
His normally dirty-blond hair just looks dirty. It either darkened since the last time I saw him, or it’s in serious need of a good wash. His olive complexion looks sallow and waxy, like he has been living in an underground bunker for six months without seeing sunlight.
Which makes no sense considering the waterfront location with a gorgeous sailboat ready and waiting to be, you know— sailed. Though his crutches probably have something to do with how he looks.
Why is he on crutches? A sprain? Fracture? Something else?
I suddenly notice what I should have seen right away. Wyatt has stubble. His cheeks and jaw are covered with what falls somewhere between a five-o’clock shadow and a short beard.
Thisis more out of place than the walking boot and crutches.
I’ve never seen Wyatt anything other than clean-shaven. To the point I once asked my brother if Wyatt keeps a travel razor in his car in case of a stubble emergency. Jacob laughed, but he didn’t give me a straight answer, so I’ve held it as canon ever since.
The scruff doesn’t look bad—shockingly good, actually—but it does make me concerned.
Not an emotion I usually—okay, ever—have when it comes to Wyatt.
His expression is tight, his grumpiness amplified into something almost threatening. His jaw is clenched so hard I bet he could turn coal into shiny diamonds right between his molars.
I clear my throat and ask, “Are you okay?”
OfcourseWyatt’s okay.
And remember—you don’t care, I tell myself. Though I shouldn’t need the reminder.
It’s the nurse in me. I’ve taken an oath to help people—even surly ones who just had me put in handcuffs. Not that nurses sign the Hippocratic oath, but it’s generally understood that our job is to help rather than harm.
And Wyatt appears to be in need of great help.
“I’m fine,” he finally grits out, and I swear I can hear his teeth grinding as he clamps his mouth shut again.
Typical Wyatt-speak. Possibly IBS induced. Or maybe it’s not an irritable bowel thing but just an irritable personality one. Not IBS but IPS—irritable personality syndrome.
“Great,” I say with a little more sarcasm than I’d typically use. Not sure whether to blame the man or the heat exhaustion. “I’m a littlelessfine, what with the unlawful arrest—”
“They just detained you,” he says.
“Semantics. Whatever they technically want to call it, all I know is that I was put in the back of a cop car in handcuffs.”
I wait for an apology that I know will never come.
It doesn’t. Wyatt simply stands there, looking sweaty and miserable and like someone poured expired milk in his cereal.
I remind myself that this isWyatt. The grouchiest of grouches himself. On the ice, this really works for him—from what I’ve heard. According to my brother, Wyatt channels all his surliness onto the ice. He even picked up a new nickname in Boston: Oscar.
As in: the Grouch.
