18. Fight, Flight,Kick
Fight, Flight, or Kick
Josie
The night before we’re set to leave, I have a nightmare.
I thrash awake, a scream caught in my throat, my conscious brain trying to grasp hold of anything to pull me out and tell me where I am while my fight-or-flight instincts are telling me I need to move. Now.
It’s dark and I scissor my legs, trying to get free from whatever’s holding me—sheets, my brain tries to tell me, though it does little to quell the panic—when there’s a sound and then a hand on my shoulder.
“Josie,” a voice says.
Wyatt. The knowledge sinks in along with a wave of reassurance.
But it takes a moment for my body to get the message. As my feet break free from the sheets, still kicking wildly, I make contact with something solid yet soft.
There’s a groan, and Wyatt’s hand on my shoulder tightens for a moment.
I go still, my brain clearing enough to take in all the data points, flushing out the fear and leaving me panting, heart racing, adrenaline drunk.
I’m with Wyatt at his uncle’s cottage. This is his guest room bed. We’re leaving in the morning. I had a nightmare.
And I just kicked Wyatt.
Kicked him in the... Oh no.
“Wyatt?” I whisper, trying to sit up.
His hand releases me and the bed dips as he sits on the edge, facing away from me, bent at the waist.
The room is velvet darkness, the only light a tiny gray glow from the window.
It was overcast when I went to bed, and I’m guessing it still is.
The night before, the moon shone like a spotlight through the blinds.
Jib, who apparently sleeps like the dead, lets out a snore from her dog bed in the corner.
I tuck my legs under me— Stupid, stupid legs! —and hesitantly flatten a palm against Wyatt’s back. He groans again but leans a little into my touch. I slide my hand over his soft T-shirt, rubbing his back.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry! I had a nightmare. And I was— Did I...kick you?”
“Yep,” he grunts, his voice strained.
“In the stomach?” I ask.
“No.”
“The knee?”
“Warmer.”
“The thigh?” I whisper.
“Hot.”
I’m an adult. I know and use the correct names for body parts all the time. But I cannot bring myself to say the word—not the correct one, nor any from the robust list of alternate names.
Not when I just kicked Wyatt there .
Instead, I say, “I’m so sorry.”
He grunts in response. I continue rubbing his back as my own breathing slows and the shakiness starts to settle. I’m a sweaty, nervous wreck who doesn’t remember the nightmare that caused this—not a single detail—and now on top of that, I feel terrible.
“Here,” I say, scooting over in the totally squeak-free bed he bought. “Lie down.”
It’s an impulsive request, but before I can take it back, Wyatt folds his big body onto the mattress beside me. He’s on his side, curled almost into the fetal position. I hesitate, not sure what to do with him now that he’s in my bed. He’s in my bed .
It should bother me, being this close, sharing this space. I wait for memories to rise up and send me into a panic, but they don’t. Instead, I feel comforted by his big, warm presence. Steadied. Safe.
Sucking in a breath, I fluff the pillows behind me and adjust myself into a half-sitting position, with him still in reach. In long, smooth strokes, I rub his back. Even though I was the one needing comfort, it helps to comfort someone else.
“I had a nightmare.”
“I know,” he says, and I’m glad his voice sounds a little stronger, a little less strained than just a moment ago. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Guess what they say about not waking a person from a nightmare is true.”
“I think that’s night terrors,” I say. “And I was awake— mostly. Just stuck in the throes of panic. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. As to whether or not I can still have children—”
“That’s a myth,” I point out unhelpfully. Or maybe helpfully. I’m honestly not sure. “Unless I kicked you hard enough to cause torsion and you don’t get it treated and—”
“Josie.”
“Yes?”
“Please stop.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Scratch my back.”
His tone is demanding, but in a way that makes me bite back a smile. It’s the kind of voice he’s used for our sailing practice in the bay, and I like it maybe more than I should. I lift his shirt, tugging it up to his shoulders before dragging my nails over his skin gently.
“What was your dream about?” he asks with a sigh, shifting and settling into the bed more, wiggling a little closer.
He reminds me of my parents’ golden retriever, Cloudy.
Named to be ironic, since my mom found that Sunny is one of the most popular names for goldens.
Anyway, they got Cloudy after I graduated from college, and I’ve never seen a dog be so shameless about demanding pets.
You start scratching Cloudy, and you are not allowed to stop.
He will nudge his head under your hand, smack you with his paw, and follow you through the house looking at you with big pleading eyes.
Okay, I guess comparatively, Wyatt isn’t as bad as my parents’ dog.
I roll over a little, turning so I can use both hands.
“I don’t remember the details,” I say. “Don’t you hate that? Like—your brain is soooo intensely focused on something it wakes you in a panic, but when you try to remember it, all you get are cobwebs and smoke.”
“Mmm,” Wyatt says, and I’m not sure whether he’s agreeing or just responding to my nails on his skin.
“Thank you for coming to check on me. Sorry I showed my thanks by kicking you.”
“You’re making up for it now,” he says. After a pause, he asks, “Are you stressed about the trip?”
As I think about this, I switch up my scratching, moving in small circles rather than long strokes.
“I don’t feel stressed, but maybe.”
“You seemed stressed yesterday,” he says, and there’s the smallest hint of amusement in his voice. “About the shoes.”
I drop my head back, staring at the sweep of ceiling above us.
The shoes .
Yesterday, after double-checking Wyatt’s list and then my list—because I’m the kind of person who needs her own list— and finding we had everything packed on the boat other than my small bag of toiletries, I had a sudden moment of admittedly overblown panic.
The galley is as stocked as it can be with food.
Canned tuna, chicken, beans, and vegetables; boxes of pasta, rice, and couscous—which Wyatt frowned about, but I swore to make him love—spices, cooking oil, and plenty of water.
My clothes are in my cabin, along with books I ordered from Amazon since we’ll be gone too long for library books.
The journal I bought especially for the trip is next to my pillow with fresh pens—my favorite brand that never leave ink blots and also smell amazing.
Plus I’ve got my chartbook and guide to the Intracoastal— a.k.a.
the Ditch—which have been my trusty textbooks.
And while I was putting one of those books in a cabinet, I realized one thing I didn’t have: boat shoes.
I found Wyatt, who was fiddling with the GPS up on deck.
“I don’t have boat shoes,” I said. When he didn’t immediately look at me, I grabbed him by the chin and turned his face toward mine. His gray eyes were wide with surprise as I repeated more slowly, almost threateningly, “I don’t have boat shoes.”
Wyatt kept his gaze fixed on mine, his lids lowering slightly and his expression softening. “You don’t need a certain kind of shoes, Rookie.”
“Yes, I do. Everyone does. You do.”
I let go of his chin then, embarrassed at the way I’d grabbed him, and looked pointedly down at his worn, loafery shoes. Boat shoes. “I need those.”
“My shoes won’t fit you, I’m afraid.”
“Not yours . But shoes like that. Sailing shoes.”
“Your tennis shoes and those sporty sandals are just fine.”
“But they’re not made for boating. What if I slip? What if they—”
“Josie.”
Wyatt shocked me into silence when he took my hand in his. He didn’t link our fingers but curled his whole hand around mind, squeezing firmly.
What was I worried about, again?
“I promise you—it’s going to be okay. And if you’ve changed your mind about the trip, we don’t have to go.”
“What? No! I want to go! This is just about shoes.”
“Is it?”
The way he asked was so kind. But also mean. Because I didn’t want to examine what he was suggesting. Easier to be worried about shoes than an almost monthlong sailing trip with a man whom, a month ago, I would have said I couldn’t stand and vice versa.
His question made me close my mouth, swallowing hard as I focused on the warmth of his palm against mine, the firm clasp of his fingers.
“I want to go,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said, and then with a final squeeze, he dropped my hand and went back to the GPS. “Then go make sure the life preservers are in place and that we finished stocking the galley.”
We’d already done both of those things, but doing them again made me feel better. Somehow, I think he knew it would.
And fine, he was right: The shoes were definitely a physical manifestation of my anxiety. A place to direct all my worries and fears about taking a long boat trip when all my sailing knowledge is stuff I picked up from books, Reddit, and Wyatt over the past few weeks.
Those worries are big. Huge.
Shoes are a small worry. Easy.
The other thing I’m worried about that’s much bigger than shoes and even bigger than the boat is Wyatt. More specifically, my feelings for him.
Because a boat trip with a guy you like could feel romantic when it’s really not.
It could just as easily be full of unrequited longing and eventual heartbreak. Which I will not think about! I fire my optimism like a cannon at these intrusive thoughts anytime they arise.
But all worries about the trip aside, I do wish I had boat shoes.
It takes me a moment, but I manage to dig up words from a not-so-shallow resting place in my mind: “I struggle with change.” When Wyatt doesn’t say anything, I continue, the words flowing a little more easily as I go, like runoff down a hill.
“I mean, I know that’s normal. Few people actually like change.
But for me it’s...different. I don’t try new things. Or put myself in unfamiliar places.”
Wyatt wiggles a little, redirecting my scratching, and it loosens the tight bands around my chest. I smile and think again of my parents’ dog.
“You’re here,” he points out, and I stop smiling. “You came; you stayed. And you’re taking this trip with me. Those all seem new. Unfamiliar.”
My fingers freeze on his back. Is he...challenging me? Saying he doesn’t believe me? I start to pull away.
But before I can choke out some kind of defense, Wyatt turns, catching my hands with his and holding my gaze through the darkness.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to say you’re brave, Rookie. This has been a lot. It’s no wonder you’re having nightmares.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can think to say. Thoughts are hard to come by when his hands are lightly squeezing mine and his eyes are on me and his words are so...understanding. Gentle.
“I would have helped if I’d known. I mean—not that I know how to help. But I would have tried,” he says.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re so capable and confident.” He shakes his head a little, and the compliments burrow deep in the center of my chest. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things hard. Or worse. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“People don’t usually. And I don’t talk about it much.”
Try: ever.
I’m startled by this realization. I haven’t ever talked openly about this. Not to my brother or parents or Toni. My best friend is around me enough to know my habits and my propensity toward staying in my nice, safe spaces. But she’s never asked, and I’ve never confessed. Heat rises in my cheeks.
“Do you take any anxiety meds?”
“I—no. It’s not that bad.” When Wyatt narrows his eyes at me, I add, “It’s not.”
“Did you decide this or did a professional?”
Ouch. Those words hit me like the crack of a whip.
“I don’t need a professional to tell me. I can handle it just fine. I don’t have anxiety. I just get anxious. There’s a difference.”
Is there, though? His question has sent my thoughts reeling. I don’t need someone else to tell me I’m okay. Definitely not a doctor or psychiatrist. Or a psychologist? I can never remember the difference.
I’m suddenly in need of a subject change.
“Are you nervous?” I ask Wyatt, gently tugging my hands from his and pushing on him so I can scratch his back again. He resists at first, but then rolls over with a sigh.
“About sailing? No.”
“About something else?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I have some concerns.”
“Like what?”
His silence stretches longer this time, and I’m about to poke him and ask if he’s awake when he quietly says, “I want this trip to be good for you.”
I smile into the darkness, letting my nails trace a wavy line up his back.
“But this is your trip,” I say. “The one you were going to take with your uncle and then alone.”
“It was that,” he says. “But now it’s ours.”
I barely have time to register all the ways his words are sinking deeply under my skin when Wyatt suddenly swings his legs over the side of the bed and walks to the door without looking back.
“Get some sleep, Josie. You have nothing to be nervous about. And you don’t need boat shoes.”
“Says the man with three pairs.”
He chuckles as he goes, and though I fall back asleep, I miss the comforting presence and warmth of Wyatt beside me.