22. Keeping the Professional Nurse Hat On #2
Of course, it’s right after I’ve taken a big bite.
Coinjock’s restaurant, like the marina itself, is packed.
I’m grateful Wyatt made the reservations for the marina ahead of time, as there’s not much space.
Only one long, fixed dock with room for fewer boats than the yacht club in Hampton.
The food is far better than the yacht club’s last night, with a much more casual feel.
I might die from the sheer number of fried things on my plate: onion rings, hush puppies, clam strips.
Zero regrets. It’s all delicious. Wyatt keeps stealing clams off my plate.
Which is only fair, as I grabbed his fork a few minutes ago and ate the bite of steak he had halfway to his mouth.
No regrets about that either.
While I’m still chewing, Wyatt adds, “My mom used to ask my brother and me this question every night at dinner.”
I can picture Susan, resting her chin in her hands, listening with interest to a boy version of Wyatt. This is the first time he’s willingly brought up his brother, and I resist the urge to ask one hundred follow-up questions.
“Highlight of the day...let’s see.” I take a sip of water as I think back over the day, which was much more eventful than yesterday.
I think I saw just about every kind of ship in the Norfolk Harbor, including an aircraft carrier and a mothballed—Wyatt tells me that’s the term for decommissioned —submarine.
There were so many things to look at, but it was crowded and loud and smelled like exhaust and diesel fuel.
I was too stressed to drive when Wyatt asked.
No way do I trust myself with so many potential objects to collide with. I’d probably run into a battleship.
I preferred the calm once we got to the Elizabeth River, though the current was swift and the river had more turns and boats than I expected.
Wyatt says there are even more during the fall and winter months when snowbirds head south in their sailboats, houseboats, and yachts.
I hate winter, so that sounds like a plan to me.
I mean, forgetting about my job, that is.
Which is honestly way too easy to do when we’re on the water. Or when I’m with Wyatt. He makes me forget a lot of things.
“I think I’d have to say the radio was my highlight.” I feel lame as soon as I say it and focus on cutting another piece of steak rather than meeting Wyatt’s gaze head-on.
“The radio,” he repeats, sounding more curious than judgmental. “What about it?”
“I liked talking to the bridgemasters and other boats. It made me feel like an official sailor.”
“You are an official sailor.”
“More like an official passenger,” I say, but Wyatt shakes his head.
“You’re an integral part of my crew, and I don’t appreciate anyone talking bad about my crew. Stop it.”
“Speaking of your uncle,” I say, needing a respite from Wyatt’s intense, protective gaze. “I couldn’t help but notice you brought him along. I found him yesterday.” I pause, then look over at him. “Behind a block of Swiss.”
Now, it’s Wyatt’s turn to look away, and I regret bringing it up. Sometimes he speaks so easily about his uncle, and other times he seems to close down.
I’m just about to apologize when Wyatt says, “In his will, Tom asked to be scattered along the Intracoastal at various points.”
I let this sink in. Suddenly, I see this trip in a slightly different light. It’s not just a trip Wyatt planned to take in memory of his uncle. It’s a trip he planned because of his uncle’s last wishes as well.
No wonder Wyatt was so frustrated by his injury, by the idea of missing this. His foot wasn’t just an obstacle to a fun sailing trip but to something much more meaningful.
People talk about peeling back the layers of someone like an onion, which I have always found to be an off-putting comparison—mostly because it instantly makes me think about the pungent, tear-inducing smell.
Like the idea of learning more about a person is smellier the deeper you go.
But getting to know Wyatt is different. It’s like unwrapping a present only to find a smaller wrapped package inside and another one inside that.
I’ve peeled back the paper a few times now, moved on to the next box and the next, but I have no idea how many are left to open.
I’m learning more about him, learning him , but there’s still so much I don’t know.
I’m getting impatient, ripping the paper now instead of carefully peeling back the tape.
Maybe that’s how it works with people—you never really get to one central truth of who they are. People aren’t static. We’re always in motion—growing, changing, shifting.
“Have you, um, done that yet?” I ask.
Wyatt gives a quick nod. “I’ve started.”
I wonder when. We’ve been together most of the time, and it makes me ache to think of him doing this alone.
I want to reach for him but still don’t feel fully comfortable. Holding hands this morning doesn’t mean it’s now on the table to hold hands any old time. It’s much easier when he initiates, which just shows how much I’ve grown to trust him.
When I find his foot under the table and press mine to the top of it, his gaze snaps back to mine.
“If you want company, let me know,” I say. “But no pressure if it’s something you’d rather do alone.”
“I’d like company,” he says. “If it wouldn’t be too weird for you.”
“Less weird than keeping him in the fridge in a Cool Whip container.”
He barks a short laugh, and I grin, delighted.
We’re interrupted when the hostess, who definitely recognized Wyatt and fangirled no small amount when we sat down, appears at our table with a package in her hands. I’m instantly annoyed. Partly because she’s shaken her blond hair loose around her shoulders and added more eye makeup.
But also because she’s bringing a gift for him. I’m tempted to stab her with the tines of my fork.
But how did she get something for Wyatt? Especially since it looks like a FedEx package. I squint, trying to read the address.
“The dockmaster said this arrived for you,” she says, holding out the box to Wyatt with a smile.
The package has a stamped label saying it’s been rush-shipped. One corner looks a little smushed, so I hope it’s not breakable. Wyatt takes it with a nod, not even glancing up at her. Disappointment makes her wilt, shoulders drooping. I almost feel bad for her.
But not quite.
When she lingers by the table, Wyatt says, “Thank you,” in a firm voice that sends her scampering back to the podium.
“You got a package delivered here?” I ask, and Wyatt nods, frowning at the damaged corner of the box. “I didn’t know we could do that.”
“Don’t even think about ordering more clothes for Jib.” He gives me a stern look.
“I wasn’t.” I totally was. “Did we forget something we need for the boat?”
“Yes.” Wyatt holds my gaze as he hands me the package. I stare at it, blinking. “For me?”
Wyatt only nods, and I take the box, hesitating. I want to tear it open, thrilled at the idea of a surprise but also strangely overwhelmed by the gesture. My heart is doing something weird in my chest, and there’s a rushing sound in my ears.
I swallow, then grab my unused butter knife and slice through the tape.
When I get the box open and move aside the tissue paper, I can only stare inside. Words fail me.
“They’re boat shoes,” Wyatt says.
Indeed, they are. I recognized what they were as soon as I opened the box. A light brown leather top with white rubber soles, they’re a less broken-in version of Wyatt’s. It’s not what they are that made me freeze.
It’s the why of it.
“You bought me boat shoes...and had them shipped here.” It’s a question, but it comes out like a statement.
I can’t look at him. The intensity of my emotional reaction is too much. I think if I move at all, I might burst into tears.
So, I just sit there, the noise of the restaurant buzzing around me, the smell of salt hanging in the air, and my hands gripping the box of new boat shoes in my exact size that Wyatt had shipped here. For me.
“They’re just shoes,” he says, but when I look at him, it’s clear neither of us believes that.