15. This Is Called a Hug
This Is Called a Hug
Josie
I’m not sure what to expect the next morning when I see Wyatt in the light of day.
The vulnerability of our middle-of-the-night conversation, plus all the physical touching, has me feeling jittery with nerves.
I’m staring into the refrigerator, wondering what I should make for breakfast, when Wyatt crutches into the kitchen and says, “I made an appointment.”
I look over at him and freeze. Even when cold air gusts over my bare feet, I can’t move.
Because Wyatt shaved.
The dark blond stubble I’ve just gotten used to seeing is gone in favor of a cleanly shaven sharp jawline.
His dark blond hair is damp, and the scent of his body wash wafts through the room.
I can almost picture it like a cartoon with its tendrils snaking across the room and wrapping around me like some kind of spell.
“What?” I work to rearrange my face so I’m not staring at Wyatt’s jaw.
“For physical therapy,” he says. “I called my doctor.”
“You did?”
“Yep. How was your morning walk? Did you bring home any fresh bacon?” he asks like this whole moment isn’t revolutionary. Like he wasn’t just telling me no the day before in this very same room. And like me being here and taking morning walks is a given.
A shaved face and calling the doctor and he’s teasing me? I wonder if the fever’s back. But Wyatt looks totally healthy. No sign of pain or fever. Just a smooth, sharp jawline that’s somehow throwing me for a loop.
“No pigs were harmed, but only because I haven’t taken my walk yet. I slept in. Someone kept me up last night with his splinters.”
“Only because you kept me up with your bed squeaking.”
“Only because your stupid bed squeaks. So, when is the appointment?”
“This afternoon.”
“Can I come?” I should have thought before asking, but Wyatt’s whole thing this morning is throwing me off. It’s possible I might need to up my coffee intake to three cups, not just two.
He hesitates but then shocks me even more by saying, “Yes.”
“Cool. I was going to go to the library later this morning if you want to come with me. No pressure. Oh, and what do you want for dinner?”
“Surprise me,” Wyatt says, then nods toward the still-open fridge. I have officially cooled the room at least a few degrees by forgetting to close this door. “Don’t throw that away, okay?”
I follow his gaze. “Do you mean the Cool Whip that says DO NOT THROW AWAY? I don’t know—notes like that make me want to do the exact opposite.”
His expression shifts. “It’s not Cool Whip.”
I wait for him to say more, and when he doesn’t, I sigh heavily. “Are you going to tell me what is in the Cool Whip container that I shouldn’t throw away?”
There is a long pause before Wyatt finally says, “My uncle.”
“Who keeps their dead uncle’s ashes in a Cool Whip container?” I ask Toni when I’m taking my walk after the whole kitchen insanity of the morning. “Serial killers. Murderers. Hockey players , that’s who.”
“I doubt that’s a general statement you can make about hockey players,” Toni says. “A better question is: Who agrees to go on a sailing trip with a hockey player who keeps his uncle in a Cool Whip container? Also, why Cool Whip?”
“He says that’s what he had on hand.”
She stifles a snort, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.
Toni spends her summers proctoring SATs and ACTs.
She’s not supposed to be on her phone, but this never stops her from using it anyway.
We have our best summer talks in the mornings while she’s at work.
Normally, I’d be calling her from my couch at home, not while walking along a poorly paved road in a small town a few hours away.
I groan. “Agreeing to this was a bad idea, wasn’t it?”
“Actually,” Toni says, “I think it’s one of your best ideas. That man is husband material on a stick.”
“Wyatt? No. Absolutely not.”
Toni is under the mistaken impression that my first meeting with Wyatt was the meet-cute we’ll one day laugh about while telling our children how we fell in love.
Did I mention my best friend is romantic to the point of delusion?
There was nothing meet-cute-worthy about the first time Wyatt and I met. I’d call it more of a meet-ugly.
“I can’t wait to tell you I told you so when you fall totally and irreversibly—”
“Don’t say it,” I beg.
“—in love with him,” she finishes, then cackles. As much as one can cackle when they’re trying to proctor a standardized test. It sounds more like she’s choking. Which is what she deserves for suggesting such a thing.
I step out of the way as a large delivery truck rumbles down the street. “Have fun turning that truck around,” I mutter as the tires kick up gravel.
“What?” Toni says.
“Nothing. Let’s go back to the ashes. Is this a thing— people keeping their loved ones’ ashes in old food containers in the fridge? Do ashes expire?”
“We keep my granny on the mantel in a vase so she’s always there. Give the man a break. Grief doesn’t exist in a straight line. So, things must be going well, huh? Honestly, I’m shocked you haven’t beaten Wyatt to death with his crutches.”
“You just mentioned me falling in love with him. Now you’re saying you’re surprised I haven’t murdered him?”
“The line between love and hate is paper thin, baby.”
“Please. I fundamentally disagree with that statement.” I pause. “Plus, the last kind of person I want to date, much less marry, is an athlete. And it’s Wyatt’s life .”
“You and your aversion to athletes,” Toni says. “Such a shame considering your brother’s connections.”
I swallow, coming this close to telling Toni about where my aversion to athletes came from. But I hate even thinking about the guy who poisoned me on athletes. And, honestly, guys in general. But especially athletes.
Their size, their ego, their inability to understand the word no .
I’m not completely unreasonable; I wouldn’t write off a guy just because his career happens to be in sports. Probably. But he’d have to have a whole lot of other things going for him to make me get over that very high hurdle.
And Wyatt...well. I would have said that he didn’t have anything else going for him.
But that was before the last few days.
“For real, though,” Toni says, her voice quieter and more serious. “I think this trip will be good for you. Get you out of your little comfort zone.”
“I like my comfort zone,” I grumble. “It’s...comfortable. Don’t knock it.”
“Speaking of comfort zones—how’s the house hunt coming? Have you found anything you like now that you’ll be rolling in your brother’s money?”
“Nothing yet,” I say, hoping she doesn’t press me on it. I don’t want to admit I haven’t looked. Toni will latch onto that and grill me about why. I’m not even sure I’d have an answer for her. I don’t fully understand it myself.
I’m saved from having to think about it when I come around the bend, catch sight of Wyatt’s house, and scream, dropping the phone.
Admittedly, this is an overreaction.
Or maybe not. Because the big truck that passed me on the road is now in Wyatt’s driveway. And two men are carrying a new mattress through the front door, directed by a man on crutches—a man I’m realizing I barely even know.
The furniture delivery is almost as shocking as Wyatt deciding to come with me to the library. He said it makes more sense to go together and then straight to the physical therapist’s—ever the practical man.
I said yes, of course, though I am, for once, struggling to find words on the drive into Kilmarnock.
“You’re quiet,” he says as I pull into the parking lot.
“I must be if you’re talking,” I say, and then my mouth clamps shut again.
Because who came and body-snatched Wyatt? Someone clearly did. Starting with the shaved face, then the setting up of the doctor’s appointment, the ordering of furniture for his house, and now...coming with me to the library?
It’s too much.
I can almost hear Toni cackling, asking again why I’m not falling for this man.
I don’t have words for that either.
As I park the Bronco, which Wyatt still insists I drive everywhere, I clench my hands around the wheel and stare at my fingers.
“Thank you,” I say finally, feeling something ease in my chest. I tilt my head, giving him a sideways glance. Full on seems like too much. “You didn’t need to buy new furniture.”
I almost add for me , but I don’t know that he did it for me necessarily. I mean, I asked why he hadn’t and complained about the squeaky bed, which now makes me feel horrible, but never did I imagine him buying two whole new bedroom sets. And a new couch. Rugs, a new kitchen table, and a bookshelf.
The house needed it, so maybe he ordered it like a month ago?
Somehow, though, I think not.
Especially when he caught me staring at the bookshelf and told me it’s for my books.
I had to shut myself in my room and sit on the new, non-squeaky bed so I wouldn’t start crying in front of him.
So, I guess at least that piece of furniture was for me.
“It’s nothing,” Wyatt says, like it isn’t.
I clear my throat. “It’s not , though. And I need you to know I appreciate it.”
“Can we go into the library now?” he asks like a man totally not in touch with his feelings.
“Yep,” I say, but then I quickly walk around to his side of the car as he pulls out his crutches and stands. “But first, I need to do this.”
Without waiting for a response, I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him.
I’ve missed hugs. While Toni says she runs purely on coffee and a steady stream of Twizzlers, I run on hugs. Physical touch from people I love, really, but hugs are the best. And as my cheek presses into the hard yet snuggly planes of Wyatt’s chest, I can’t stop the deep sigh from leaving my chest.
Wyatt’s frozen at first, but then he shifts on his crutches, one hand landing between my shoulder blades and the other arm fully circling me, pulling me in tight.
My breath catches in my throat, and it takes a few moments for me to swallow down the swell of emotion.
“This is called a hug,” I say. “People do this for many reasons, but often as a thank-you or a show of comfort or affection.”
“Huh,” Wyatt says. “I had no idea.”
“Well, you’re doing great. Totally a natural at this.”
It’s starting to go on too long. I know this, but it’s still hard to peel myself away from him. I can’t meet his eyes when I do.
Giving him a pat on his arm like he’s a really good puppy, I start toward the library. He follows, catching up quickly. I swing open the door, sensing his gaze on me. But I’m still feeling a little too emotionally raw to meet his eyes.
“Do you like to read?” I ask. Seems like a low-risk question. I only half expect him to answer.
Wyatt shrugs. “Not really. Sometimes biographies or history books.”
“I thought you said you were into wolf-shifter romances,” I tease.
“Only during Halloween.”
“And then you switch to Hallmark-style Christmas romances in December?”
“Nah. I prefer abominable snowman rom-coms during winter.”
I’m still laughing over this minutes later.
Who knew Wyatt had wit buried under thick layers of grump?
I’ve seen the occasional signs of life from him this week, though most don’t count since they came from Fever Wyatt.
Still. My strongly held assumptions about who he is are crumbling like dust. Or— melting like romantic abominable snowmen.
It’s like the bargain I struck with him helped him find his will to live.
Whatever the reason, I’m glad.
I head to the desk to return my books, and I lose him in the stacks. We’re not likely to cross paths if he’s looking for biographies or books on history. To appease Toni, I do pick up a few romance novels to go along with my all-female author list and a women’s fiction beach read about sailing.
I’m passing the children’s area when I hear a deep, familiar voice. Wyatt is standing at the help desk, talking to a woman wearing a red hat with a colorful feather sticking out of the top. Based on her clothing and the children gathered around the rug, she’s probably about to start story time.
“I don’t know the name,” Wyatt is saying, “but it’s about a crocodile with a toothache.”