Page 87 of If All Else Sails
Wyatt responds, “He’s got one of best defensive programs in the country.”
“I hate basketball,” Wanda says with a sigh, but when I glance at her, she’s smiling fondly at her husband. “But a successful marriage isn’t about aligning on all points. Just the ones that matter. Which is fewer than you might think,” she adds with a wink.
Okay, Wanda. That’s quite enough matchmaking from you.
But apparently, it’s not.
“A successful marriage takes place in the gaps,” she says.
Despite the appeal of diving off the dock instead of finishing this conversation, I find myself asking, “The gaps?”
“People always say opposites attract or like minds find each other. But it doesn’t matter whether you’re opposites or like two halves of a whole. There will always be gaps where you don’t agree or don’t understand or don’t align. Lots of gaps. A successful marriage is one that works even in those gaps. It’s allabout navigating and bridging the gaps, even if they never close. Do you see?”
I’m not entirely sure I do, but I know I’ll be thinking about her words for a long time to come. Even if they’re not exactly relevant right this second.
“I appreciate the advice. And I’ll keep it in mind when I find someone I might consider marrying.”
“Mm-hmm.” Wanda raises her brows. Her upturned mouth calls me a liar as clearly as if she’d said the words aloud.
“He doesn’t see me that way,” I say, lowering my voice. “He never has.”
But I don’t think I believe my own words. Maybe they were true once.
Now, though, I think of Wyatt running into my room when I had a nightmare, Wyatt buying new furniture for his cottage because I complained, Wyatt standing behind me at the wheel of the boat until I felt secure piloting alone.
The way he saidourwith Jib earlier, the way he said this isourtrip. The way my words hurt him earlier, but instead of stewing over them or letting me continue to blunder, he swooped in and saved me.
I realize I’m expecting Wanda to argue with me, to say something like “I see the way he looks at you, and you’re wrong,” but she doesn’t, and my heart shrivels a little in disappointment.
I am fully torn. I want to end this conversation and I also want her to argue with me. To talk again about the storm brewing between me and Wyatt. To provide more outside confirmation that thereisa storm and I’m not just imagining the way things have shifted between us.
But now she shrugs and gives me a final squeeze before letting go. “Well, then. When you do find that person, remember the gaps. Or, as they’d say in England, mind the gap.”
A familiar bark startles me, and I glance back to see Jib running over, tail wagging.
Only she’s not coming from the direction of the boat, where I left her in my cabin. She’s jogging from the direction of land, and she’s not alone. An English bulldog trots along beside her, mouth open and tongue lolling. As Jib nears us, though, the other dog runs off.
I scoop her up. “Jib! You ripped your sailor shirt cavorting with that bulldog!”
The little outfit is hanging off one shoulder, torn along the seam. There’s a stick tangled in the fabric and grass stains on the back. Jib looks wholly unrepentant. The other dog turns and heads back where they came from without a backwards look.
Wyatt is suddenly right beside me. He frowns, staring into Jib’s eyes, and she wags her whole rear at his attention.
Wyatt plucks Jib from my arms and she nestles into his chest. “Did you figure out how to open the door, smart girl?”
It’s funny when Wyatt talks to Jib because he doesn’t use a baby voice like most people do when they’re talking to dogs. He just speaks to her like an adult human who can understand everything.
His eyes narrow, meeting mine over Jib, though he’s still talking to the dog. “Or didsomeonefail her basic door-closing course?”
“Hey!” I step on his foot lightly. His good foot—of course. “I know how to close doors, Wyatt.”
“Do you?” he murmurs, but there’s a smile in his voice.
“Yes.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Wanda says. I realize how close Wyatt and I are standing and step back. “But is your little dog fixed? Because that guy is definitely not.”
I glance at the bulldog, who’s making his way up the steps toward the parking lot. She’s right. He’s definitelynotfixed.
