Page 85 of If All Else Sails
“Can you hold her leash so I can get a poop bag?” I ask Wyatt, handing him the leash.
Because I can think of no better mood killer, no better way to slam and lock the door on an emotional conversation, than talking about poop bags.
Chapter20
Definitely Not a Couple
Josie
We leave Jib on the boat while we head back to the yacht club for showers and dinner. The yacht club locker room is gorgeous and mostly empty, despite a group of women in tennis skirts who flounce through, laughing and drinking what I suspect is not water from their monogrammed Stanley cups. I decide while enjoying the luxuriously wide shower that a group of tennis-playing women should be called a twi?e.
Turns out, I didn’t do a great job of applying my own sunscreen today after the fog burned off. I’ve got a few places I missed completely on my neck, the backs of my arms, and my shoulders. They’re red and tender. Otherwise, my skin feels fresh after washing off the salt and sweat. There’s something about putting on a dress and a little makeup after spending the day on the water that makes me feel like a princess.
It also makes me feel nervous. Like I’m going on a date, notjust having dinner with Wyatt the same way I have for the last three weeks.
That thought—plus the fear he might try again to have the conversation I don’t want to have—has me mildly panicking when I reach the yacht club dining room before Wyatt. I start to sweat when I see the restaurant’s low lighting, with candles and flowers on every table. Not the vibe I want to have tonight.
So when an older couple I met earlier on the docks extends an invitation for us to join them, I’m all too eager to say yes without waiting for Wyatt. And it’s a good thing because when Wyatt joins us a moment later, wearing khaki pants stretched tight over his muscular thighs and a polo shirt he’s been practically poured into, with shower-damp hair I want to run my fingers through, I know I would have weakened without a buffer. He looks better than any appetizer could, and even Wanda gives an appreciative hum that makes her husband, Greg, chuckle.
There’s no way Wyatt can broach any big topics now. And though I’m still not sure what he was going to say, I don’t want to know. I can’t. Not today.
Whether it’s about feelings, which is probably not it, or who will take Jib, or even what the end of this trip will mean for the budding friendship I’ve grown really used to—I’m just not ready.
I don’t want to skip to the end.
I want to exist in the now and only the now for as long as possible—please and thank you very much. Even if this is the exact opposite of how I normally live. It’s what I need to survive this boat trip with Wyatt.
“So, where are you two from?” Wanda asks after we’ve given the waitress our drink orders.
Wanda has the kind of long white hair younger women like me can only aspire to one day. It’s tied in a neat braid hanging over one shoulder with a pink ribbon tied around it. Somehow, this feminine touch isn’t out of place, though she doesn’t have on a stitch of makeup and her clothes almost exactly match her husband’s—khaki pants, boat shoes, and a collared polo shirt. Hers is green and his is navy.
“I’m from Fredericksburg,” I say, then point to Wyatt. “He’s from Boston.”
“Oh,” she says, sitting back, clearly surprised. “You two aren’t a—”
“Nope,” I say quickly before she can finish. “We’re barely friends.”
That is not the best description or even a mildly accurate one, and I don’t miss the hurt flashing in Wyatt’s eyes. But I can’t apologize and make it better. I can’t tell him the truth— that he’s become much more than even a casual friend.
“Or, rather, we’renewfriends,” I amend, wishing I could build a safety barrier that didn’t also include hurting Wyatt’s feelings. “But definitely not a couple.” The chuckle that escapes me sounds less humorous and more like the start of bronchitis.
Any second now, I could stop talking. Probablyshouldstop talking if Wyatt’s expression is any indication.
“How did you end up sailing together?” Wanda asks. “That must be a story.”
Her husband chuckles and reaches over to pat her hand. His cheeks are rosy and his smile wide, giving him the look of a beardless Santa. “Don’t be so nosy.”
“I’m not being nosy. I’m being polite. It’s kind to be curious.”
“‘Kind to be curious,’” I repeat. “I like that.” When Wyatt doesn’t seem inclined to speak, I jump in. “The short story isthat Wyatt is a friend of my brother’s and needed someone to go with him on this trip. I was sort of thrown into it.”
So many details are omitted from that explanation. So many gaps and important things glossed over. Hot shame licks at my chest, and I resist the urge to press a hand to my sternum.
“Incorrect,” Wyatt says. “She blackmailed me.”
Wanda gasps. “Blackmail?”
I gape at Wyatt, whose expression has gone from disappointed to distant and now to what I can only describe as dastardly. There’s a spark in his gray eyes. A challenge. And it makes something just as fiery rise in me along with a strange sense of gratitude.
