Page 90 of If All Else Sails
I take a sip of coffee and study Josie, who is adding cream to her mug. When I got up a few minutes ago, I was surprised to find her already boiling water. The sight of her here—in this familiar, nostalgic, and at times painful place—stole my breath as surely as if I’d been hit right in the diaphragm.
It still is. And, clearly, stealing my ability to speak.
“Come up and sit with me?” I ask, a flare of nerves like I haven’t felt for years zipping through me. Somehow, asking Josie to drink coffee with me on deck feels like asking her on a first date.
She hesitates, like she’s mentally scanning through a list of excuses.
“Please,” I say. “I’ll make breakfast in a little while.”
She raises an eyebrow at this. And I get it—she’s done all the cooking since she arrived. Mostly because I get the sense she likes it. Once I got off my crutches, I could have taken over. I know my way around the kitchen. But I didn’t miss the way Josie hums under her breath while chopping and stirring or the pleased look on her face when she finishes a meal.
“You can cook?”
“I make a mean egg sandwich.”
“Deal.” She nods and starts up the steps with Jib scrambling ahead of her.
I do my best not to stare at Josie’s bare legs as I follow her up, but it’s hard. I really like the sight of Josie in her pajamas, which are the same blue ones with clouds.
The back of her neck is a little pink from the sun the day before. A piece of hair escapes her bun, curling over her shouldersas she settles on one of the bench seats on deck. Normally, I’d give Josie space and sit across from her.
Today, I press my luck—especially after my stupid comment— and sit next to her. Josie glances at me, blinking in surprise.
Then, as though my earlier words are stamped on my forehead, she angles her face away, looking toward the thin band of gold glowing on the horizon.
She’s beautiful in the gray light of predawn. Even when she’s upset with me.
There’s something so simple about Josie’s beauty. Natural, like the sky or the sea. It’s in the line of her jaw and the curve of her cheek, the pout in her full lips. The way her brown eyes are lit from within by a brightness that’s all her own.
Right now, though, that brightness has dimmed.
Because of me. And my inability to say what I mean to her. Around her. About her.
I reach over, ghosting my fingers along her forearm until they come to rest on her hand. Josie stiffens. Then with a sigh, she surprises me by turning her hand over and linking our fingers.
But she still keeps her gaze averted, watching a few boats already moving this morning.
“I have this problem with you,” I say, and when she starts to pull her hand away, I realize how that sounds.
I am zero for two this morning. Keeping her hand clasped in mine, I gently squeeze her fingers, holding her hand hostage. If she tugs away again, I’ll let her go.
She doesn’t.
“What I meant to say is that I have this problemaroundyou. I don’t say what I mean. In fact, usually, it’s theoppositeof what I mean. Or, I say the right thing in the wrong tone of voice.”
“My mother calls it foot-in-mouth disease,” Josie says, finally turning to look at me, her eyes gentle, her smile faint but there.
“I have a wicked case,” I confess. “But only around you, Josie.”
Those words don’t land with the significance I want them to. And they don’t convey the full extent of what I mean.
Only around you, Josie. Do you hear me?Onlyyou.
Becauseonly youtwist me up like this.
Only youmatter so much I can’t think when I’m around you. And I definitely can’t be trusted to speak.
With my track record this morning, if I try to tell her how I feel about her right now, how I’ve always felt about her, I’ll probably end up insulting her again somehow.
