Page 83 of If All Else Sails
I can’t promise that either. But his support makes me feel infinitely better.
The rest of the day passes without incident, and by the time we reach our stop for the night, I’ve fully recovered from my bout of almost paralyzing self-doubt.
I have not, however, recovered from the feeling of Wyatt’s strong and steady presence, the warmth of his muscular chest against my back, the occasional puff of breath against my neck. People talk about sea legs, how you have to get used to the water and the rock of the boat. I had zero problem finding my sea legs.
Instead, I’m struggling to find myWyattlegs. I am completely shaken by him.
Even after he backs the boat expertly into the spot the harbormaster gave us over the radio and I hop off the boat, I feel an unsteadiness that’s bone deep. Maybe soul deep.
“Come on, Jibby,” I say, grateful for the tiny dog who somehow is my only ally, my noncomplicated companion. As long as she’s here, I have some kind of protection against the man who is slowly and far too quickly dismantling all of me. A canine chaperone or buffer.
But I can’t help wondering: Is Wyatttryingto dismantle things? Is he intentionally trying to push past my defenses?
Does he have the same tug of attraction, or am I projecting my own growing feelings?
That I can’t answer. And I’m not sure I want to know. How terrible would it be if we had a conversation about feelings and learned that our feelings are not the same?
I try to imagine being on the tiny deck with Wyatt after he’s said that he just doesn’t see me that way or, like an echo from the past,Not yoursister.
That was years ago, I tell myself. After all, I’d said I would never be into him, and look where we are now.
In any case, my head is a mess over Wyatt.
Aside from that, I feel really great about our first day sailing. Despite my carelessness, we didn’t run aground. We didn’t hit anything. We followed sailing protocol when we passed other boats, and I got to chat with a few of them on the VHF radio, which made me feel very official.
A small pod of dolphins—or porpoises? I don’t know the difference—swam alongside our boat for almost an hour.
I honestly thought Jib might go overboard to join them. She barked at them for a solid five minutes, running from one side of the boat to the other until she finally fell into an exhausted nap.
I kept watch as the sleek gray heads appeared and then dipped below the surface. A good omen for sailing.
I swear one of them made eye contact with me and we had kind of a moment.
“How many of those did you pack?”
Wyatt is suddenly beside me in the grassy area just outside the marina where Jib has been peeing for probably two minutes straight. She did not learn to use Wyatt’s fake grass patch after all.
I glance at the navy-and-white-striped sailor’s costume I put her in after the morning fog left.
“Let’s just say...she has more clothes than I do.”
Wyatt watches her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She’s still peeing. Honestly, for a small dog, I don’t know how her bladder holds so much.
“Why, though?” he asks finally.
“You said she was ugly. Then I had her shaved and you said she looked like a rat. It’s enough to give a girl a complex.”
“I did not give our dog a complex.”
Our.The word slams into me, and I think it hits him at the same moment because he goes stiff beside me.
Ourdog.
Several thoughts compete for dominance in my brain. There’s the super hopeful, suddenly romantic part of me that wants to read into this as Wyatt’s way of declaring his feelings.
I mean, you don’t have a joint dog with a friend, right? That’s totally a couple thing.
But a more logical, tragic part of my brain, the part that sometimes rises up to do battle with my optimism, reminds me that at the end of this trip, I’ll be going back to Fredericksburg and my normal life.
