Chapter One #2
Our current primary was a Silicon Valley type with a God complex.
Last night, after spending the entire week working indoors in the Sky Lounge and complaining about spotty Wi-Fi, he’d chewed me out in front of everyone for not smiling enough during dinner service.
You’re coming off a little bitchy, sweetie were his exact words.
What he didn’t know was it had been three months to the day since Samson, my eleven-year-old nephew, was struck and killed by a car while riding his bike to a friend’s house.
I’d spent the entire morning crying—in the laundry room, while scrubbing toilets, as I collected leaves from a nearby island and hot glued them to construction paper to make laurel wreaths for the toga party.
So yeah, my smile wasn’t at full force. I’d wanted to tell him it takes a bitch to know one, but I liked being employed.
Instead, I apologized and imagined all the offensive towel art I could make on his bed but wouldn’t.
“Hey, hello? Jo?” Nina said, knocking on my forehead. “Can you check if the guests need a refill on drinks? They’re on the sun deck.”
I groaned. “Do I have to?”
Nina scowled, so I shut my mouth and marched up the spiral staircase without another word.
Though the laundry room was my true love, the sun deck was a close second.
Known as the “party spot,” the sun deck had a hot tub that could be converted into a dance floor, several oversized lounge chairs for sunbathing, and stunning panoramic views of the water.
Another set of stairs led up to the highest point on the ship, a cushioned area called the bunny pad, where guests (or crew members looking for a moment alone) could escape for the best view on board.
Mr. Silicon Valley didn’t care about once-in-a-lifetime ocean vistas, however.
I found him in the hot tub with his coworkers and their bored girlfriends, all of them staring at their phones.
“Anyone need a refill?” I asked, plastering my brightest smile on my face.
The primary unglued his eyes from his phone. “I’ll have a gin fizz. And make sure you shake it long enough this time, Jen.”
I almost said, My name is Jo, jerk face, but the rest of the crew would kill me if I put our tip in jeopardy, so I contented myself with a “You got it” and an eye roll once I turned away. Fussy drinks for fussy guests, go figure.
Nina and I used to play a game where we’d guess which drinks the guests would order based on our first impressions of them.
After a few months, we got scary good at it.
Vodka sodas were the favorite of youthful, weight-conscious girlfriends.
Whiskey drinkers were contemplative types who stared silently out at the water, but when they did talk, they had the best stories.
Winos, on the other hand, talked nonstop.
They were the ones who inevitably ordered late-night snacks, meaning we had to shake Ollie awake to make them (we played rock, paper, scissors to see who got stuck with that unpleasant task).
But they were also the guests who most frequently invited us to join the fun: dancing with us at theme parties, or requesting we go down the giant inflatable slide behind them or double-bounce them on the floating trampoline.
Painkillers were for the flashy new-money types who squeezed every last perk from their trip.
The margarita drinkers were my favorite, though.
Fun, but not overly complicated, and I’m not only saying that because margaritas are my and Nina’s drink of choice.
“Oh, and, sweetie,” the primary called out. “These towels are a little damp. Mind getting fresh ones?”
And gin fizz drinkers were the worst of them all.
After all that shaking and straining, they were never pleased.
I shook his drink with extra vigor, imagining it were his head.
I knew those towels were dry when I brought them up.
What did a damp towel matter when he would get it soaked with his sopping-wet chest hair anyway?
When I finished making his drink, I stood near the hot tub and waited for his approval. All I got were smacked lips and a “Meh.” But what did I expect, a thank-you?
I ran belowdeck to exchange the towels (aka went downstairs, refolded the towels, waited three minutes, and returned with the same towels), then stood behind the bar, watching the primary and his friends take business calls while their girlfriends took dozens of pouty photos.
After what felt like an eternity, Nina appeared on the sun deck and joined me by the bar.
“Having fun, Jen?” she asked.
“So much fun,” I said, wiping down the already-spotless bar with a damp rag.
Nina and I were peeking at the girlfriends’ social media feeds (models, predictably) when my phone vibrated. At the sight of my sister’s face on the screen, my chest tightened, and I stared at my phone, unable to move.
Nina squeezed my shoulder. “Take it. I can cover for you.”
I nodded and stepped into the Sky Lounge, the phone still vibrating in my hands.
Despite the five years between us, my sister and I had always been close.
She was more than a sister to me, really.
Beth had become the mother ours couldn’t be after Dad died, taking me in when I was sixteen.
I’d lived with her; her husband, Mark; and their kids for six years, until I moved to Florida at Beth’s urging.
She’d wanted me to go to college, but I’d ended up bartending instead.
But now, my sister had experienced an unspeakable tragedy.
We all had. And I had no idea what to do or say to be there for her.
“Joey,” Beth said when I answered. “Are you ready?”
I sighed into a sleek white love seat, relieved Beth wasn’t already crying. Half our phone calls started with her in tears these days. Out on the sun deck, the primary passed his empty glass to Nina with a grimace. No doubt about it, I was ready for charter season to end.
“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”
“Do you need me to send anything?”
Odd question, but then again, nothing had been normal with Beth lately. “I’d love it if you could send me some sanity. These guests are horrendous.”
“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. I still can’t believe he paid almost two hundred bucks for a pair of plain white briefs.”
“You don’t even want to know what the leopard-print ones cost.”
Beth laughed, but it was thin and false, not the throaty cackle I’d always teased her for. I grabbed a nautical-themed pillow from beside me and hugged it to my chest. “How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Beth said, but her voice wavered. “No, actually. Things between me and Mark aren’t great. That’s why we need this break.”
Break? I squeezed the pillow harder. Mark and Beth on a break?
They’d been together since freshman English class in high school.
Then Beth got pregnant their senior year, the year Dad died, and they got married right after graduation.
Despite it all, they were the happiest couple I knew, at least until Samson died and the fighting started. But a break? I couldn’t fathom it.
“I didn’t know things were that bad,” I said.
Beth sighed. “We wouldn’t need this time alone if they weren’t. I wanted to be the one to tell you, in case the girls bring it up.”
I tried to imagine Beth’s daughters—Mia, sixteen, and Kitty, thirteen—calling me to vent about their parents’ marriage.
The girls and I were close. Samson and I had been even closer.
All three of them had visited me every summer since I’d moved to Florida.
In between visits we video chatted and sent each other memes, but I wasn’t sure we were vent-about-their-parents’-marriage close.
“I’m sorry, B.” I snapped a loose thread from the white-embroidered anchor on the pillow. “I love you, no matter what happens. Mark too.”
“I know,” Beth sighed. “And thanks, Jo. You’ll call if anything comes up?”
“Of course,” I said, thinking she was talking about the girls reaching out to me about her and Mark.
“This will be hard, but I think it’ll be good for all of us,” she said.
I bit my lip, not so sure I agreed. How did she and Mark splitting up make an awful situation better? They’d lost so much already. But it wasn’t my job to tell her what to do. My role was to be the supportive little sister.
A shadow fell across the room, and I looked up, spotting Nina in the doorway. She gave me an everything good? look, and I managed a weak smile.
“Listen, B. I’ve got to go. I love you.” I hung up, taking my time to slip my phone in my pocket so I could avoid looking at Nina.
“How’s Beth?” Nina asked when she sat down beside me.
“She’s fine.” I passed her the couch pillow and stood, crossing the room. “Just checking in.”
“And everything’s good?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t look like everything’s fine.”
“Is it time for the beach picnic?” I turned to the sun deck.
The guests milled around the hot tub, towels at their waists, their drink glasses filled.
“Did the primary complain about your gin fizz–making skills too?” I tried to laugh, but my throat was thick with emotion, and I blinked back tears, angry with myself.
I hadn’t cried in front of anyone since the night my mother, whom I rarely spoke with, called to tell me about the accident.
Shouldn’t I be able to talk about this without falling apart by now?
My pain over Beth’s marriage, the loss of her son, it could be nothing compared to hers.
Didn’t I owe it to her to keep myself together?
Nina tilted her head, watching me. Why was she wasting time sitting there? What if the primary needed his underwear ironed again?
“I’m here to listen if you need to talk,” she said. “I’m sure the guests can entertain themselves for a few minutes.”
I turned away and adjusted a vase of flowers behind me. “I appreciate it, but I’m good.”