If All Else Sails

14. Good Patients Get Lollipops #2

I’m still trying to wrap my head around this—the fact that Wyatt has a whole other personality hiding beneath his perpetually grumpy exterior.

There’s even humor under there. I wonder what else I’ll find if I keep excavating.

I doubt I’ll see the uninhibited, goofy version of him brought out by his fever again.

And that may not have really been him . I mean, calling me pretty?

Pretending he couldn’t lift his leg so I’d have to touch him?

None of that seems like the Wyatt I’ve known for years.

The phrase is in vino veritas , not in fever veritas .

It felt more like a glitch in the Matrix than the truth seeping out.

All that aside, Wyatt is a little softer now. And I’ll take it. Anything to make this unplanned and definitely unwanted wrench in my summer more tolerable. Maybe even enjoyable.

The whole idea of enjoying time with Wyatt sends a skittering sort of worry up my spine.

I may enjoy the banter we’ve had going, but it’s best to keep Wyatt in the neat box I’ve assigned him to.

He’s my brother’s best friend and client.

A surly grump who doesn’t like me. And, finally, an athlete, which, for me, comes with its own box wrapped in caution tape and barbed wire with a neon-yellow Danger sign.

If I’m being honest, already the few days I’ve spent with Wyatt have dismantled all those things. Snipping through the barbed wire, pulling off the caution tape, unplugging the sign. There’s a crowbar on the edge of the box, working it open.

No one is more shocked by this than me.

Wyatt hisses as I dig the tweezers in and come out with an intact splinter. The last few kept breaking, which meant it took longer and I had to root around more. I know that didn’t feel good. Amazing how something as tiny as a sliver of wood can cause so much discomfort.

“Check this one out,” I tell him, holding the tweezers closer to him. “All in one piece. See what happens when you stay still?”

He only grunts.

I drop the piece into a cracked white coffee mug I found in the kitchen. Once I finish his hands, I should probably check his knees. He didn’t mention anything about them, but if he landed on hands and knees when he fell, there might be splinters there too.

Apparently, these floors aren’t to be messed with. I’ve been walking around barefoot but probably need to use my flip-flops. Or buy some slippers. I try to grasp the end of the next one, and Wyatt’s fingers close around my hand holding the tweezers.

“That’s good enough.”

I level him with a look, and he sighs, releasing me and opening his hand again. “You know what you remind me of?” I ask.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“The crocodile who had a toothache.”

He furrows his brow. “What?”

“It’s a children’s book about a big, powerful, scary crocodile who is totally debilitated by one tiny tooth. Or, I guess, one big tooth. But still.”

Wyatt’s hand is heavy in mine. Warm. His skin is smooth, other than the calluses. I’ve stopped myself more than once from tracing over them, my curiosity urging me to map them out. Or to ask about them. I’m sure they come from handling a hockey stick for years.

“What happens to the crocodile in the story?” Wyatt asks.

I drop Wyatt’s hand for a moment, stretching out my fingers before letting my hands flop into my lap. Suddenly, I’m aware of how close we are. I was in professional mode, focused only on the splinters.

Now...our closeness feels far too intimate. Especially with his heavy-lidded, sleepy but interested eyes and mussed hair. The fact that we’re both dressed in pajamas only adds to the effect. I tug my shorts down my legs.

But I can’t back up now without drawing attention.

It’s no closer than we were in his bedroom when he flipped me on my back and hovered over me in a way that sent a tidal wave of fluttery feelings through me.

As though my whole body became a sanctuary for butterflies who were performing some kind of synchronized flight.

It was both pleasant and mildly nauseating.

While I was rooting around in my bag for my headlamp and tweezers, I shut down the butterfly sanctuary, mentally hanging a Closed sign on the door. Of all the men in the world, Wyatt isn’t one I can feel that way around.

This moment in the living room is thankfully missing the tension I’m sure was one-sided in Wyatt’s room.

But there’s a different kind of intimacy in our closeness and conversation as I tell Wyatt children’s stories and answer his questions about me.

Mentally, I add this to the charges I plan to send my brother.

Thinking better of it, I erase it from the list. This isn’t for Jacob or his money.

“Well,” I say slowly, tugging on the hem of my shorts again, “the crocodile roars from the pain, which scares all the other animals, who think the crocodile is angry. They won’t come near him. Except for one tiny little mouse.”

I pause, searching Wyatt’s expression for any sign he’s bored. Or just making fun of me. But he seems oddly invested, his gray eyes unwavering on mine.

“So, what happens?”

“The mouse scampers right up to the crocodile, climbs into his mouth, and pulls out the tooth. Instantly, the crocodile’s pain is gone.”

“Let me guess,” Wyatt says. “Then the crocodile eats the mouse?”

I laugh. “Um, no. Clearly you haven’t read enough children’s books.”

Something flashes across his face, there and then gone. Too quick for me to pinpoint. Especially when trying to read him is like staring at a book written in some foreign language.

But my teasing struck some kind of nerve. I’m not sure how or what, but I file this away to think about later. When it’s not almost midnight and I’m not playing actual nurse.

“The crocodile thanks the mouse and they throw a party.” I make a face. “I think it’s based on the fable of the lion with the thorn in its paw. That story ends with a lesson about...something. Kindness, maybe? But I’m really tired of the trend where every children’s book must be didactic.”

“Didactic?”

I blush a little, realizing I’m totally going off about my pet peeves regarding children’s literature to Wyatt. But he did ask, and I don’t see anything but sincerity in his expression.

“Didactic means having some kind of moral or lesson to teach. It’s fine for some books to have a takeaway.

Fables, for example. But I think a lot of children’s books have gotten preachy.

Do kids need to be kind? Yes. But can a crocodile simply host a party with his new mouse bestie for fun? Also yes.”

“You have given this some serious thought,” Wyatt says.

“I considered becoming a librarian,” I confess. “I like books.”

“Why did you choose nursing?”

“Believe it or not, more schooling was required for library stuff than nursing. Lots of job competition. I also worried all of it might take away my love for books. Like if they became my job, I wouldn’t get to just enjoy them anymore.

You know?” I’m quiet for a moment. “Also, after everything that happened with Jacob, I had anxiety about medical stuff, then confronted that anxiety by getting interested in it.”

“What medical stuff did Jacob have?”

I stop and look at him. “Wait—you don’t know?”

Wyatt slowly shakes his head. I find myself shaking mine too. It’s unbelievable how something so pivotal in my brother’s life isn’t something he talks about freely.

Is it because it doesn’t matter? Or because it matters so much?

Knowing my brother’s uncanny ability to bounce back like he’s made of rubber, my guess is the former.

But it’s strange how something so impactful to me that I needed therapy and chose my career based on it was some kind of blip to my brother.

For my parents, too, this was a huge, life-altering moment.

I must be hesitating too long, because Wyatt shifts the hand I’m working on and brushes the smallest circle on my palm. “You can tell me,” he says, “but you don’t have to.”

I’m suddenly self-conscious under Wyatt’s attention. The man is intense . And now all that intensity is directed my way.

I am not used to someone so focused.

It makes my stomach clench, which is the last thing I want it doing as a reaction to Wyatt. Stupid stomach better get the memo.

I’m probably just reacting this way because I can’t remember the last time a man was this attentive to me. Which is sad considering Wyatt’s not looking at me like that . He’s probably just trying to distract himself while I pull splinters from his palms.

“I’ll give you the short version,” I say, and he nods.

I go back to his splinters. “Jacob got a staph infection from a mosquito bite under his hockey pads when he was twelve. It moved into his bloodstream, he got sepsis, and he almost died. That’s why he’s super into sports but didn’t really play after high school.

The infection left his knee a little janky. ”

Wyatt is quiet for a long moment. “He never said anything,” he says finally.

“Which is very on brand for my brother,” I say.

I suddenly find myself thinking about Wyatt’s family, about his brother.

Peter, I think his mom said? And the barely mentioned Mr. Jacobs of Jacobs Restaurant Group.

There has to be some kind of bad blood there.

I can’t think of any situation in which you see one of your parents and don’t ask or even mention the rest of the family. Unless you’re not on good terms.

I almost work up the courage to ask, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I do, however, manage to free the final splinter from his first hand.

“Ooh—all done with this one. Time for your other hand. Gimme. We’ll be done soon as long as you don’t make it more difficult.”

With a sigh, he offers me his other hand. “I’m not that difficult.”

“Says you.”

I pick up his right hand and examine it. To my relief, only three splinters are visible when I brush away a few specks of dirt.

“Maybe you should have chosen the librarian path.”

I get started on the first splinter, which immediately breaks apart as I try to tug it out. “Maybe. But this is pretty satisfying.”

“Says you.”

There are a few moments of quiet where neither of us speaks and Wyatt doesn’t grumble as I manage to pull a whole splinter from his palm.

“I have a question,” Wyatt says.

“You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”

There’s a pause. “Not just tonight. I simply asked them tonight,” he says, and I have no idea what to do with this statement.

So, I do nothing. I focus on my task. I remove the second-to-last splinter.

“My mom brought up the trip I planned,” he says.

“I remember you didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

He’s quiet. Then he says, “It was supposed to be a solo trip like I used to take with my uncle in the summers. Obviously, I can’t do it alone. Even once I’m off crutches it would be iffy. I think it would be feasible if I had another person with me.”

Even if he were in full physical health, the thought of Wyatt taking the trip alone that he used to take with his uncle makes me ache.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know if you’d consider it,” he says, and it takes me a solid ten seconds to realize Wyatt is asking me to come on a sailing trip with him.

I drop the tweezers. Again.

He’s asking me . To go with him . On a sailing trip .

Me. Him. Sailing trip.

At least, I think that’s what he meant.

“What are you asking?” I force myself to look Wyatt right in the eyes as I ask this.

The expression on his face falls somewhere between severely constipated and waiting to get four fillings done at the dentist.

“I’m asking if you’d want to go with me. Sailing.”

“To where?”

“Georgia.”

“Sailing to Georgia,” I repeat, like saying the words aloud will help all of this make sense in my brain. It doesn’t. Or maybe I’m still reprogramming my brain from thinking Wyatt can’t stand me to...I don’t know what.

So pretty , I hear him saying again while in his fevered state.

My cheeks flush as I fumble for words and come up empty.

“You could bring your headlamp,” Wyatt says, and I can tell he’s trying to make light of this. Trying to make a joke.

He’s so very bad at it.

“Are you saying...you want me to go with you?”

He nods, but that’s not enough.

“Me?”

“I can’t go alone,” he says.

Ah. So it’s not about me. It’s about having another person to help considering his injury. This makes more sense, but it stings. More than it should.

“Have you ever been sailing?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t be much help.”

“I’d teach you.”

Wyatt—teaching me to sail. The idea is a bowling ball, rolling around my brain and knocking over every thought that tries to form. My pulse is racing and my cheeks and the back of my neck both feel hot.

There’s an uncomfortable prickle of something at the idea of taking a sailing trip with Wyatt.

Dread? Desire? I’m honestly not sure.

“How long would it take?” I ask.

“A few weeks,” he says. “Weather determines a lot in terms of how far we get each day.”

I want to say yes. I want to get in my car and drive home.

I want to push past the anxious thoughts and do something I’ve never done. Something I realize I want to do. Which is more terrifying than the idea of being alone with Wyatt on a boat doing all new things.

“I have conditions. A condition,” I find myself saying.

Meanwhile, a terrified voice in my head screams, Abort! Abort! Abort! Mayday!

“Which is?”

“You start physical therapy. See your doctor for whatever follow-ups you’re supposed to do. If you work toward recovery and get clearance from your doctor to sail with another person there to help, I’ll go.”

He says nothing for another long moment, and I pull the last splinter from his palm. Finally.

“You’re all done,” I tell him, setting down the tweezers and stretching my neck. Telling myself not to think about the fact that Wyatt hasn’t given me an answer.

I click off the headlamp, and the single remaining lamplight bathes the room in a soft glow.

Guess this answers that. If Wyatt is so set on sabotaging his recovery, it saves me from taking the trip. I stand up, ready to head back to bed—like I can sleep now —when Wyatt lightly traps my hand, tugging me to a stop.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

“It’s that easy?”

He swallows hard, like this decision is anything but easy, and it makes me wonder why he seems so set on not doing what’s best for him.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Okay.” I slip my hand from his because the contact and the late night and the whole conversation and the idea of being alone with him on a boat is too much.

But before I even take a step, Wyatt says, “Also...I think I have a few splinters in my knees.”

With a sigh, I sit back down.