Good for You: A Novel (76)

She hadn’t forgotten her fight with Wyatt.

Either fight, come to think of it. She could remember what they’d both been wearing each time, as well as the confusion and hurt in his eyes. She could recite, nearly verbatim, what each of them had said.

I am done having other people hurt me, she heard herself say.

Except Wyatt hadn’t hurt her—not intentionally, and maybe not even at all. She’d hurt herself by not giving him the benefit of the doubt, by overreacting and cutting him off.

But in remembering, Aly had proved herself wrong. Because her intuition, maybe even her psyche, knew what her lizard brain had failed to notice: she was safe with Wyatt.

And yes, loved.

“What have I done?” she said aloud as she retrieved her phone from the coffee table.

Roger had left her a voice mail while she’d been sleeping. She could transfer the deed, he’d said, but it would be a complicated process, particularly because Wyatt was the executor of the estate and said estate wasn’t settled yet—Aly assumed this last part referred to the life insurance that was still in limbo. But yes, if that was really what she wanted to do, he could help.

Fine: Aly knew how to do complicated. She would call him back tomorrow and tell him to set it in motion.

Now she just had to tell Wyatt about her decision.

Her hands trembled as she hit his number, but the call immediately went to voice mail. She hung up before it began recording and tossed the phone on the sofa.

As Luke said, when you couldn’t think straight, you could still read—except in her state of mind even reading seemed completely out of the question. But when you couldn’t read, you could still walk. Aly smiled to herself as she slipped on her flip-flops, because Luke would’ve liked that addendum to his aphorism. There were so many things she wanted to say to him; so many moments and memories that he would not be a part of. Even after all the grieving she had done over the past month, the thought of life without her brother felt unfathomable.

And still Aly threw open the French doors and stepped onto the patio. Luke might be gone, but she was still here. And while she was, she would go down to his beach and enjoy it for him.

She’d just begun to descend the stairs when she saw the boat in the water. Though she hadn’t yet seen a body beside it, she immediately broke into a run.

Seconds later, Wyatt came into view. He waded in the water, which was up to his thighs, doing God only knew what beside the boat—the one that Luke had taken out in Florida, which had returned to Michigan in tatters, without him. Except it wasn’t in tatters anymore. It was polished a deep brown and looked nearly as good as new.

“What are you doing?” she cried, still kicking up sand as she ran toward him.

At the sound of Aly’s voice, Wyatt turned slowly, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He didn’t call back to her, and she felt her stomach drop: he was still upset.

But why had he sailed Luke’s boat here? Was this some sort of mariner’s revenge? A symbolic gesture to signify that he was really and truly done with her?

“Hey,” he said, walking toward her through the shallow water. “Sorry, had to make sure it was anchored.”

“Hey yourself,” she said, sounding roughly 108 percent more confident than she truly felt. “I called you.”

“You did? When?”

“I don’t know, ten minutes ago?” she said.

“Sorry—I must have missed it. I’ve actually been out here for almost an hour, but I was on the phone with my mother,” he said, looking sheepish.

“You were?” She wanted to hug him—she knew calling his mother was a huge step. But she didn’t have a right.

“Yeah. It was time. You didn’t see me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I was napping.”

His smile wasn’t so faint that she missed it. “But you never nap.”

“Apparently I do now,” she said, letting her own lips curl up.

They looked at each other.

“Aly—” he began, just as she said, “Wyatt—”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“No, you,” she said, but her eyes had just landed on the freshly painted navy script on the back of the boat.

AS LUKE WOULD HAVE IT

She wasn’t sure whether to smile, laugh, or burst into tears. Maybe all three. “A terrible pun. Luke would’ve loved it,” she told him.

“A terrible nautical pun,” said Wyatt, grinning at her. “His favorite kind. I thought about painting Frayed Knot on it again, since it wore off the last time, but I felt like maybe it was time for something new. You’re not angry, are you?”

“Not even a little.” She examined him. He didn’t look upset, but maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. And in spite of everything, she still had the impulse to put her hands on him, to run her fingers along the flat plane of his stomach, the curve of his bicep, the stubble on his jaw.

But that was how she’d messed things up in the first place.

“Wyatt, before you say anything else, I am so sorry.”

“Aly,” he said.

And then he wrapped his arms around her and he kissed her and oh—how he had ruined all other men for her.

“I’m sorry,” he said after he finally pulled his mouth from hers. “I should’ve called. I wanted to give you space after telling you about Luke, but I think I gave you too much. Am I wrong?”