25. Pity Truth with Zero Qualms
Pity Truth with Zero Qualms
Josie
Per my usual since we started the trip, I eat dinner with the appetite of a teenage boy mid–growth spurt.
Though our simple galley breakfasts, lunches, and occasional dinners when we’re in an anchorage are fine, restaurant meals feel extravagant to me now.
And I’m always starving. Sailing—even if Wyatt does most of the work with the actual sails and lines—is exhausting.
“You decimated your flounder,” Wyatt says, a smile in his voice. “It was good?”
I nod, dragging my fork wistfully over my plate, like it can magically produce more. “Seafood always tastes better by the ocean. Even if they’re importing it from somewhere else. I don’t want to know.”
Wyatt points to a chalkboard menu sign that reads Local fish caught fresh daily across the top. “I think you’re safe there.”
He drops a fried shrimp on my plate, and I snatch it so fast he actually chuckles. I grin, mouth closed while I chew.
“Thanks,” I tell him when I can. “Everything is just better right now.”
My words land with more weight than I intended. I meant everything tastes better, but everything is better. Wyatt’s gaze catches mine. And when he casually extends his hand across the table, palm up in a low-pressure invitation, I slide my fingers between his, easy as breathing.
This I can do. Hand-holding. Flirting with Wyatt. Flirting with the idea of Wyatt.
Anything more or anything having to do with the future and my frontal lobe shuts down, leaving me with the panicked, cortisol-fueled drama of my lizard brain.
Wyatt said when I’m ready.
But what if I never feel ready?
All of the comfortable ease from dinner vanishes the moment we open the hotel room door and are faced, once again, with the one bed.
At least it’s a king?
We pull apart like we’re holding hot potatoes instead of hands. I laugh awkwardly, then walk inside the room to Jib, who is completely oblivious to the sudden tension burning up all the oxygen around us. With a little grumble, she rolls over, offering me her belly for scratches.
“You can use the bathroom first if you want,” Wyatt offers.
“Sure,” I reply, giving Jib a last scratch before ducking into the bathroom, where I give myself a very strong, silent talking to about being a mature adult while toothpaste dribbles down my chin.
While Wyatt’s in the bathroom, I switch on HGTV and watch as two people search for the best bargain property on the beach. I never care about which house the couples choose— they never pick the one I think they should—but I make it a game to guess which one they will pick. I’ve gotten good too.
Wyatt settles next to me in bed, still a respectable distance away, but so close it sends a shudder through my limbs.
Jib is curled up, separating our legs like the perfect little barrier, but she groans as Wyatt messes with the blankets, then hops down and climbs into one of the armchairs. She’s snoring again in seconds.
Traitor! What happened to the ladies sticking together?
“Are you in the market for a beach house?” Wyatt asks.
“On my salary? Please.” I almost tell him about my plans to look for a house in Fredericksburg. But since I still haven’t done more than think about thinking about it, instead I ask, “Do you have a place in Boston?”
“No. I’ve moved around so much, I rent wherever I go.”
“That makes me feel better. Sometimes it seems like I’m the only adult who doesn’t own a house.” He’s quiet so long, I glance over and see a pinched look. “Wait—you do own a house, don’t you?”
He blows out a breath. “Two. One in Northern Virginia and one in Cape Cod. Plus, now, the murder cottage.” He grins at this last one. “I just don’t happen to live in any of them.”
I’m most curious about where his house in Northern Virginia is. And why he owns a place there. Now that I know he grew up in Richmond, I guess it makes more sense. Plus Jacob works out of a satellite office in DC for his agency.
I am also not far.
I shelve all those thoughts and the accompanying questions—like Where do you want to live when your hockey career ends? and How long do hockey careers last, anyway? —and instead go with: “I’m guessing you didn’t buy a bargain beachfront property in Cape Cod?”
His lips twitch. “I don’t think it could be technically classified as a bargain, no.”
“I’ve never been up there.”
“Neither have I.”
“Wyatt!” I smack him in the stomach with one of the small, brick-like pillows, which probably has no effect on his brick-like abs. “How can you own a house you’ve never even been to?”
“Ow.” He grabs the pillow and stuffs it behind his head. “It’s an investment property. Didn’t need to see it. Jacob saw it. He stayed there with...” He pauses and clears his throat. “With someone recently.”
I roll my eyes. “ Someone , huh? Ugh. You don’t need to downplay my brother’s propensity to play the field. Maybe one day he’ll bring a nice woman home.”
Wyatt glances over, one brow lifted.
I laugh. “Or not.”
“You know, he says the same thing about you. Not that you’ll bring a nice woman home but that maybe sometime you’ll find someone and settle down.”
Nerves suddenly zing through me. “Jacob talks to you about my dating life?” Really, it’s a lack thereof, but I don’t clarify.
“I think he worries about you,” Wyatt says slowly, but I get the sudden and distinct impression Wyatt is the one worried. Not my brother.
“He shouldn’t,” I grumble. “I’m fine. What about you?” I ask the question before I’ve thought through it and realize I may not want to know.
“Do I talk to Jacob about my dating life, or do I have a dating life?” One side of his mouth barely lifts in a smile.
“Both?”
“No.”
“That word again,” I groan. “I swear, it’s the most used one in your vocabulary. Expand past one syllable, please.” I’m already this deep in—might as well rip off the bandage and hear all the details of the supermodels Wyatt’s probably been dating.
“No, I don’t talk to Jacob about my dating life because—also no—there isn’t much of one to talk about.”
“But you’re...you,” I sputter.
Wyatt angles his body so it’s clear he’s looking at me, but I can’t bring myself to look back. “I’m not interested in games. When I know what I want, I don’t settle for less. I don’t waver. And I’m really, really good at waiting.”
My heart is like the drumline at a college football game. I’m surprised it doesn’t beat its way right out of my chest.
Once again, I find myself balancing on a precipice, not sure why I keep holding back the words I want to say or the things I don’t want to admit I feel.
But I do force myself finally to look at Wyatt, to meet head-on that intense “grayzel” gaze. “Patience is a really admirable quality,” I whisper. “I hope you don’t have a limited amount.”
“Infinite,” he promises, and a tremor ripples through me.
And because I’ve reached the limit of how far I can go, especially while reclined in a bed next to Wyatt, I shift my attention back to the television. “What’s your place in Boston like—the one you rent?”
“Empty,” Wyatt says, thankfully not seeming to mind the sudden subject change.
But he doesn’t add anything more to the one-word summation of his place in Boston, and I can’t help but wonder if the word encompasses something bigger. Not just his apartment but his life.
The Wyatt of a month or so ago when I arrived had an air of defeat about him. At the time, I saw it as just his usual grumpiness—plus the beard and the boot. But now that I’ve been with him day in and day out, I understand more in hindsight.
I don’t think it’s just the loss of his uncle or his injury that sent Wyatt to live in the town of Wallowland, population one. There are still little mysteries about him I need to solve. Like what the deal is with his father and brother. And what the blueprints on his kitchen table are.
I ache to ask nosy questions, to drill down below the surface, but the look on his face makes me feel like this might just be poking a bruise.
Or a bear.
Plus, how fair is it for me to press him with questions when I keep skirting my own vulnerability at every turn?
“Are you a betting man?” I ask.
“No.”
“Tonight maybe you’ll make an exception.” I point to the TV. “In this show, they look at three houses. We each bet on the one we think they’ll pick.”
“I haven’t even been watching,” Wyatt says.
“Neither have I. You can pick first. They’re about to do a recap of all three. Then there will be a commercial, and then the reveal.”
He starts to argue again, and I shush him. He frowns but watches like a good boy as the couple discuss the merits and the downsides of each property over glasses of pinot. When the show cuts to commercial, I turn back to Wyatt.
“Well?” I ask, poking him in the arm. “What’s your pick?”
“I still don’t have enough data.”
“That’s all the data we’re going to get,” I tell him.
“What are the stakes for this bet, Rookie?”
“Not money,” I say quickly. “I can’t compete there. How about a truth?”
“A truth?” he repeats.
“Whoever wins can ask the other person a question that they have to answer truthfully.” His frown deepens, harsh lines bracketing his mouth. I poke him again. It’s only partly because I like the way his muscles feel under my fingertip. “Come on. I won’t be too invasive with my question when I win.”
His eyes narrow, but even so, I can see the spark in them.
I bite back a grin. I knew this would get him. Maybe I haven’t seen him on the ice, but I’ve heard enough about his drive.
And I know this much about athletes: Competition is their catnip. So here I am, dangling it right in front of him. Here, kitty kitty!
“Fine,” Wyatt says. “Winner gets one truth.”
“Per episode.”
“How many of these can we watch?” He sounds astounded.
I shrug. “We’ll see. You bet first. I have the advantage because I watch this show more than you do.” I hold up both hands when he assesses me. “I haven’t seen this episode though. I’m no cheat.”
The show comes back from commercials.