Damaged

Sophia

The girls and I decide to make a trip out of the two days before I set sail from the Bahamas. We all come down early, and I rent a bench house that is a little extravagant but not out of my new price range.

It feels a little wrong. At a thousand bucks a night, I could stay at a place like this for a little over a year . That thought hasn’t sunk in. I have a thousand dollars four hundred times.

That sounds a lot bigger than four hundred grand.

We’re sitting in the sand on the western-facing beach, watching the sun swell red as it sets. It’s been a good couple of days. I’m a little weird in that I don’t like to talk about my breakup. Hailee and Alana press for details, but I don’t give them much.

I told them he works too much. That I would always be a distant second to James’s company. I didn’t tell them that we had said our I love yous.

I didn’t tell them that my bloody beating heart had never been so in love.

They think I just had a fling with my hot boss. That’s fine. I don’t need to be pitied. But sometimes I feel guilty for being the private friend. Alana and Hailee spill their hearts while I keep mine under lock and key.

“So who’s your crush on this voyage? The crew is all pretty young,” says Alana.

“I don’t have one.”

“Oh bullshit. Come on. We’ve both looked at the crew list on the website.” Alana points at Hailee. “We like Michael. But Bryce is cute, too.”

I shake my head and grin.

“You’re going to sea . That’s probably just going to be one big love boat. I hope they required everyone to get tested before boarding.”

“Gross, Alana.”

“I’m just speaking the truth.”

“I actually already met with Michael when I was still in New York.”

“You never tell us anything,” says Hailee.

“We didn’t kiss or even hug. It was more of an interview about what it was like living on the boat.”

“And?”

“There are no murders when they’re in international waters. It’s all very boring a lot of the time. It’s a job, after all.”

“A weird one. You really do get into interesting things.”

“Thanks… It just sounds good to get out of New York for a little bit.”

“Tell me about it,” says Hailee. “It was the best thing that happened to me in years.”

Alana and I both look at Hailee. “Was that the fresh air? Or finding the love of your life?” Alana teases.

“Okay, okay. Maybe that. But it’s still nice to have a change of scenery, even if yours is just going to be water. It will make you appreciate the little things.”

“Like dry land,” I say, smiling.

“Sure, like dry land,” Hailee says.

We all go quiet as the sun starts to sink beneath the water. Its beauty needs no words. The sky and sea both flame red. I start to cry, just a tear or two.

Something feels wrong about this course of events. I have money. Independence. An interesting job ahead of me. But it still feels like I’m running. Like I’m twenty-six and clueless with what I want out of life.

I want love.

That much I’m certain of. To have that feeling I had with James every day. To love a smile. A light touch. A voice.

It’s the little things that I like about being in love. Not just the orchestra that crashes in my chest during the big moments. The kisses. The eye contact. The sex.

Love is so much more. It’s everything about a person. And when I think of love, even just the word, I still think of James. I wonder how much longer that will last. I pray not long. That I don’t feel like I should’ve fought harder. Gave him more chances.

“We’re going to miss you, ,” Alana says and pats my knees. “Between my sister and me, Steve is going to be spoiled rotten.”

I smile. “Good. He deserves it.”

“And by the time you get back from this job, Alex and I will be back in New York. It all works out,” Hailee says.

I pinch my tears away before they can notice them. “I know. I just have the jitters a little bit.”

Alana leans against me. “I would be afraid of you if you didn’t.”

We keep staring out at the sea until the sun disappears, and then Hailee sighs and slaps her knees. “So… it’s the last night. Who’s getting drunk?”

Alana’s hand shoots into the air, and she tries to raise my arm to join hers.

I smirk and keep my arm at my side. “I can’t make any guarantees.”

“Come on. Don’t you depart at three p.m.? That’s plenty of time to beat a hangover.”

“Maybe for you. I’m not a pro.”

Alana shrugs. “Practice makes perfect.”

We walk back into the beach house, and Alana puts together a blender of margaritas. That’s as clear as the night is for me. She makes them extra strong, and after my first drink, the three of us are singing and laughing and acting years younger than we all are.

It does feel like we made it. I have hundreds of thousands of dollars. Hailee has Alex and her dream job, and Alana, well…

Alana has always had her shit perfectly together. As much as she likes to have wild a night out.

The alcohol and constant conversation fill the hole in me tonight. It doesn’t feel like anything is missing. I have my friends. I have time to find a man I love.

But the second my thoughts pull the word love from my lexicon, I go back to the kitchen to pour myself an even larger margarita.

I wake up to the light crash of the surf. The sun is bright. When I roll over and check my phone, I see that it’s already past nine.

I stay still for a moment to assess my hangover.

No headache. No feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. I have a crushing urge to pee because I chugged more than a liter of water before my head hit the pillow. But I have a feeling I made it out okay. There’s a little sluggishness that is unavoidable. I don’t feel refreshed, but I’m far from debilitated.

I go to the kitchen and peek into both guest bedrooms to check if Hailee and Alana are both still sleeping. They are, and I go get changed, have a banana and big glass of mango juice, and then I’m out the door.

Our beach house isn’t far from the harbor where Bernard’s research vessel will depart from. The post office address that I texted to James is close by.

Mail from America arrives first thing in the morning, so every day before Hailee and Alana have woken up, I’ve walked in the early Caribbean heat to see if anything arrived for me.

It’s a little pathetic. He said it’s just tax documents. But still, maybe there’s a letter in there, too. Something that says good luck. Have fun. He did want to send it to the boat address and not my apartment.

But he never responded after I texted him the address. Not even a thanks. I don’t know why I would expect anything from him. This just goes to show how my mind is still being led by my heart.

I miss James. I love James. It’s okay for these things to be true after only a month apart. It’ll take time to heal.

And heal I must. Maybe a more rational part of me is hoping that I do just get a stack of tax documents. No letter. Nothing personal, whatsoever.

But I don’t feel that way when I stand at the post office desk and ask if there’s anything for Simms.

This morning I’m extra anxious. We won’t be back in port for thirty days. We only come back to the island once during the expedition, and that could always change based on weather and if the shipwreck we’re exploring demands more time.

The mail clerk goes in the back and comes back with the same sorry expression she’s worn every morning I’ve come here. She can tell I’m hopeful for something. “No mail, sorry.”

“Okay, thanks for checking!” I say like it’s no big deal. I’m trying to hide my pathetic heartbreak at the fact that I didn’t get my tax documents from my old boss. When I put it that way, I sound desperate.

I suppose I am. I keep seeing myself turn from him and walk into the snow that night in Quebec.

I leave the little building and head back into the heat that’s building in the street. I pick up some pastries at the bakery and walk back to the beach house.

Alana and Hailee are worse for wear. They’re zombies from the hangovers. Eyelids low. Movements slow.

“You went outside already? Like… in the sun?” Alana asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re a madwoman.”

“I think I had fewer margaritas than you guys.”

“We’re on vacation. Ugh.” Hailee puts her head against the cool countertop. “Don’t judge us,” she says jokingly.

I’m glad I took my foot off the gas last night. Bad hangovers give me anxiety these days, and I’ve got plenty of that today.

“Did you get your mail?” Alana asks.

I frown. “No. But how’d you know that’s where I was?”

“You mentioned it the other day.”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t, but my brain might be slipping from my anxiousness.

We have a long breakfast together. Their flight out is before my boat’s departure, and my stomach knots as I start counting down the hours until they’ll have to call a cab to the airport.

Maybe I’ll say screw this and go back with them. Maybe I won’t spend three months on a boat. Maybe I’ll apply for graduate programs and live in a little apartment with Steve as I get a master’s in archeology. That’s not the worst idea.

I have options. While treasure hunting may be the closest thing to living my dream, this feels… rash. Everyone I talk to about it thinks it sounds super cool. And I guess it is. It’s once-in-a-lifetime stuff. The thing you do before you have a boyfriend and more responsibilities.

Three months. It goes quickly anyway. Might as well get one more big paycheck and then be a student again. And I won’t be a broke student. I won’t have to work weekends or weeknights while taking classes. I can focus on my studies. Excel in them.

So, I have a plan. Be brave. I’ll do this and move on.

When I see Hailee and Alana out to their cab, it’s an emotional goodbye. At least for me. I shed a couple tears.

“You’re going to have the time of your life, . It’s hard before you’re there, but trust me,” Hailee says. “Three months is nothing.”

“I’ll email you Steve pictures every week. Expect a big drop on Sundays,” Alana says. We all hug, and then I’m waving at the tinted windows of the taxi and laughing because I can only barely see the flash of movement as they wave back.

The silence after their departure makes me nearly ill. The distant sound of waves. The whoosh of wind through the palms. I’m all alone and about to be surrounded by strangers, most of whom have far more credentials than I do.

What if they treat me like the new girl? What if they’re mocking and not very nice? After all, my job isn’t the most serious role on the research vessel. I’ll make social media videos, and only after my video quota is complete will I be a research assistant.

It’s no use worrying until I’m there, but I can’t help it.

Pretty soon, it’s my turn to call a cab.

The boat is leaving from a pier up the shore from Nassau’s main marina. I spot it well before the cab is close.

The boat is enormous. It’s white with the big black radar rotating on top. The back of the boat is open and flat. It could be used for a helipad, but I can see two submersibles being stored there.

Okay, that’s pretty cool. I have a little bit of excitement next to my anxiety. My luggage is taken aboard as soon as the cab pulls to a stop. There’s a circus of activity. Men are using a crane to put cargo in the back, and a few members of the media are taking pictures and setting up cameras.

Everyone is running around, and I don’t even know which gangplank to use to board, since there’s one towards the front and another closer to where they’re loading crates.

“, right?” A woman in a tan suit and bright blue heels comes strolling over to me. It’s Melissa, the woman who first DM’d me for the job.

“Yeah,” I say, a little intimidated by her suit and height. She’s at least 6’1” in her heels.

“Great to see you. Bernard loved you in that photograph.”

I don’t like the sound of that.

“I’m busy, but Michael here said he could show you around. I can give you a more thorough tour and introduction to your duties once we’ve set sail.”

“.” I hear a familiar voice. I turn to see Michael. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. He holds his arms wide for a hug, and I smell him before we even embrace.

The scent is a little sour. I’m sure he’s been working all day in the sun, but there’s not a hint of deodorant. I need to not judge. This is probably a crazy day for everyone.

I turn to say goodbye to Melissa, but she’s already gone.

“How was your flight?” he asks.

“Oh, I arrived a few days ago. I was in the Bahamas, so I made a vacation out of it.”

“Nice! You know how to do it. You ready?” He gestures towards the boat.

“Yeah! Do they know—” I nod at the men carrying my bags.

“Yep! All the crew’s bags go in the same place until rooms are assigned. There’s a lottery.”

“A lottery?”

“Some rooms are worse than others. It’s not the biggest deal, but we draw straws.”

“You didn’t mention this in the interview…”

“It’s new this year,” he says quickly over his shoulder.

We go inside, and what I notice first is the smell of diesel exhaust. The hallways are in the shape of rounded rectangles. The walls are white and bright with a fresh coat of paint. The ship is not state-of-the-art. It’s older than the pictures I saw on Instagram made it look. At least this part of it.

“We’re in the crews’ quarters,” Michael says. He starts going down a metal staircase. We’re now in the belly of the boat. There are rows of doors on either side of us. “This is known as the underground. It’s where we’ll be staying. Some rooms suck. Those two”—he points forward, down the hall—“are right by the engine room. Not the most pleasant. And these, well… They have their quirks.”

Michael ducks into one of the rooms, and I follow.

Two guys are sitting on a mattress pad that hangs from a metal frame off the wall. One has his hair up in a messy graying bun. The other has a long orange beard. Beard has his sandals up on the mattress pad, where he’s deposited quite a bit of sand.

They’re both wearing headphones. Bun is on his phone. Beard writes on a notepad.

“Luke, Kerry, this is .”

Neither says hello. They just raise their eyebrows in recognition like moody teenagers.

“They’re just busy. Departure day has a lot of shit to get organized.” I look at Beard’s legal pad. He’s drawing what looks like a psychedelic version of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. But instead of Venus standing on a seashell, it’s a butthole.

“Okay,” I say. These two guys don’t seem very friendly. I’ve yet to see another woman other than Melissa.

There’s another metal bunk that hangs off the wall but no pad. “Didn’t you say we get our own rooms?” I ask Michael.

“Yeah…” He sucks air in through his teeth. “I just found out today, we’ve got more crew this voyage. Everyone has gotta bunk up this year.”

“Oh.” I wonder if he’s telling me the truth. He could’ve just lied during my interview with him to get me to come out to sea. To be stuck on a boat with him for months. The thought makes me sweat. It doesn’t help that the air is thick and smells briny down here. It’s like a pickle jar left in the sun.

My eyes are wide at my ignorance. This place already did a great job with social media. Their Instagram makes it look swank. They don’t show the underground.

No wonder it pays seventy thousand dollars. It’s not because it’s super technical. It’s because it sucks.

Michael also told me the food was only alright. I imagine that’s going to be code for prison slop.

What have I gotten myself into?

A voice crackles over the intercom. “All hands to the research deck. All hands to the research deck. The captain has arrived.”

Beard and Bun roll their eyes and take out their headphones, and we all shuffle back up the metal stairs and to the wide-open space at the back of the boat. This must be the research deck.

I see who the captain must be. He’s wearing a white naval uniform and matching captain’s cap. He’s standing on the pier and waving at us and the people next to him on shore. He’s dressed like this is the goddamn Titanic, and then I frown.

Long white hair sticks out in a ponytail from behind the cap.

“Wait…” I say. “Is that Claude Bernard?”

“Yeah,” says Michael. “Don’t worry. He just goes by Captain. He doesn’t steer the boat or anything like that. The first mate is the real captain.”

“Great.”

Someone hands Bernard a bottle of champagne. He raises it, and the crowd cheers.

“Clap and smile,” Michael tells me.

I listen and watch as Bernard leans into a pitcher’s pose and chucks the bottle. He somehow throws the bottle down . I watch it disappear and hear it splash into the water.

“That can’t be good luck,” I say.

The crowd exclaims in disappointment, and an aide quickly brings the billionaire another bottle of champagne, as if this was expected.

“It usually takes him a couple tries,” Michael says.

He hurls this one, and now the bottle breaks and everyone cheers. Bernard raises his arms in victory.

The entire show, captain hat and all, gives this voyage the feel of a rich boy’s play project.

And if Michael had been withholding the worst of this place for me… what is Bernard really like at sea?

A tyrant, probably.

Maybe I deserve this. I clap along with the others. Seventy thousand. Seventy thousand. Seventy thousand. I repeat it over and over. Even if I already have a nest egg, it would be stupid to pass this money up. I don’t think I’ll ever have a job that brings in six figures. Plus, it’s June, and I wouldn’t be able to start a master’s program until at least the spring semester.

Bernard walks onto the ship via the gangplank, and everyone starts to scramble to stand in a line. “Crew inspection,” Michael says.

Bernard walks slowly down the line of us. His eyes are squinted appraisingly. What is there to inspect? Michael is wearing cargo shorts.

“As you were!” Bernard shouts after reaching the end, and everyone begins to disperse.

I don’t want to go back into the bowels of the boat. Michael is tasked with some errand in the engine room, and I stay on the research deck and help move some smaller crates to make myself handy and try to make friends. But it’s about ninety degrees, and there’s no conversation. Just grunting and pointing.

When we’re finished and I’m standing with my hands on my hips, feeling like a bona fide deckhand, a woman steps out from inside the ship.

“ Simms?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a package for you.”

“Here?”

She stares at me blankly. “Yes.”

I try to explain my confusion. “I was at the post office earlier, and there wasn’t any mail.”

“We pick up all the crew’s mail first thing on departure day.”

“Oh.” I follow her inside to the mess room, where the long plastic table has a few piles of mail on it. She points to a box of flat cardboard. It’s about the size and shape of a textbook.

“Thank you,” I say, and she leaves without a word.

There’s no return address. I find a knife in one of the cabinets and cut the packing tape. I pause as I lift the lid.

There’s not a folder of tax documents. There’s just a hat. Thick wool the color of oatmeal. A blue ring of fabric near the bottom. I smile and open the hat.

There’s a note inside. Stapled to it is a newspaper clipping. A headline.

James Callaway’s Security Company Aquarius Set to Sell For 1.7 Billion

I read it once. Twice. Then I see the edge of a note also sticking out from the hat.

, you’re right.

This is a stupid hat.

But there was a reason I compromised my style choices for it. Touch the blue fabric with your thumbs until you find it…

I squint, confused, but pick up the hat and follow his instructions. My fingers find something hard. It’s the size of a nickel. I part the fabric and look closer.

A black lens glistens. It’s a camera. A spy cam. I pick the note up again, quickly.

It was a gift from a security contractor I worked with. I didn’t throw it away. I was saving it for a good use, and I didn’t expect that purpose to end up being a wholesome one. But on that evening I took you ice skating, I couldn’t help but hope that one day, we’d wish there was a recording of that night.

And I know I may have ruined the night where we confessed our love, but it just so happens we may not have had the date right.

Check your spam, snowflake.

James

I couldn’t reach for my phone any faster. I go to my email, and sure enough, sent three hours ago is an email in my spam. Subject: stupid hat .

I open it and play the video.

It’s not one long, thirty-minute recording. James has edited it. It cuts from frame to frame. It’s all from James’s viewpoint.

It’s us walking to Central Park. Me tying my skates. Us spinning on the ice, and then… that embrace. I can feel my heart balloon all over again.

The angle of the hat emphasizes just how much taller he is than me. I’m craning my neck up to meet his eye, and I smile as the frame darkens as we go in for the kiss.

I smile. It’s sweet, but the video doesn’t end there.

The next frame is bright. Daytime. It shows me stuck in a snowbank on a ski slope. It’s from when James waited for me. I laugh-cry as I watch the snowball fight. And then the frame is us, cheek to cheek. That’s why he held his hat over his hand when he pointed at the moon.

He was filming us.

The video blurs as my eyes grow hot with tears. James kisses my cheek before looking back to the sky.

I say the words aloud at the same time I watch myself mouth them against his neck. “I love you.”

I’m smiling stupidly as I watch the video. I see myself start to ski away, but he holds the hat towards himself. He looks into the lens.

Into my eyes now.

“I love you, ,” he says and shakes his head, grinning like a man who can’t believe his luck, and then the video goes dark.

We’d both said our I love yous on that ski slope. Unbeknownst to each other. Two months before the words finally left our lips in Quebec.

My heart is leaping against my ribcage like a dog that wants to go out.

I hear the boat’s horn sound, followed by some halfhearted cheers. I realize there’s been a different sensation under my feet. Movement. I rush to the window to see we’re already ten feet from shore.

We’re leaving port. I could almost scream. If I’d gotten this letter this morning, I wouldn’t be on this boat.

If I’d opened my email’s spam folder…

My heart pounds. Do I go up the captain’s bridge and tell them I have to get off? Beg? It sounds mortifying, but I’m already sprinting up the metal stairs. The bridge is on the top deck and near the bow. I can find it by that alone.

When I get there, I barge in, breathless and with my hair wild in front of my face. I’m already burning from embarrassment, but I’m past the point of no return.

“I’ve got to go back. This job isn’t for me. I’m sorry.”

Nobody here knows me but Melissa, who raises her eyebrows in an “Oh boy” and then rubs her temples like something bad is about to happen.

Bernard turns to me. His captain’s hat is off. His white ponytail is draped on his shoulder like he’s got an albino ferret.

“Young lady, you must have permission to enter the bridge.”

“Um… permission to enter the bridge?”

“Granted. If you salute your commanding officer.”

I raise my hand slowly in an awkward salute.

“At ease,” Bernard says and goes back to the captain’s chair. “This vessel does not return to shore apart from medical emergencies. If you forgot your phone, you’ll manage. We’re about one mile from not having service for a month.”

“No. I’m sorry for asking for such an inconvenience. I didn’t know it wasn’t for me until I was here.”

“You’re not the first to make this request. But this ship does not return to shore except for medical emergencies. We will port to restock supplies in thirty days. If by then you still do not feel suited to your position, you may leave.”

I realize I have no recourse. No freedom. I have to do as the captain says. This isn’t a normal job. This isn’t even America. It’s a new feeling, and I signed up for it.

“Right,” I say and turn to go.

“Nah, ah, ah,” Bernard says, and I turn, confused.

He raises an eyebrow as I stand at the door. “You must ask permission to be dismissed.”

“Permission to be dismissed?”

Bernard stares at me confused. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“No…” I sigh. “That was me asking.”

“Oh. I see. Well, yes. Permission granted.”

I throw him a sarcastic salute, but he returns it with all seriousness. I leave the bridge and race down the stairs and out a door onto the deck.

I shouldn’t. It won’t make this easier, but I pull my phone out of my pocket and call James.