Eliza #2
And I spend the rest of that tour recounting all the reasons I can’t be attracted to Grayson, as if that’ll condition my body and my mind into agreement.
Suzanne: Updates for this week - we should hear from last week’s phone interview tomorrow. No rejection yet is a good sign. And a contact at one of the marketing agencies told me your resume is standing out. We’re on standby.
The message comes as another violent stroke of thunder roars outside the boat’s cabin. The squall is moving in quickly, a fierce-looking band of red on the radar fast-tracking to Garnet Shores, a swath of dark green right behind it, ready to ruin everyone’s Sunday night.
I’ve taken the necessary precautions. Added two extra fenders to the side of the boat.
Threw on an extra line, after watching a quick tutorial of how to tie to a cleat.
Pulled all the cushions, my cooler, and my shoes inside, just like the renter’s manual told me to do.
Still, I can’t shake the worry settling into my chest, even with Suzanne’s good news splayed across my phone screen.
The sky cracks again in warning, and a mighty band of wind whips against the boat. I curl tighter into my sheets, reminding myself that boats weather storms all the time, and this one’s been doing it for decades. Just last week, the sky rumbled with distant thunder all night.
I’m fine.
Determined to make that true, I grab a bag of chips and throw my favorite guilty pleasure show on my laptop—a cheesy, soap-opera-esque teenage drama that brings back high school nostalgia. Tucking the blankets up around my chest, I settle in.
Not long after, the rain starts.
Though “rain” seems too passive a word for it.
Lightning flashes outside the tiny port windows as a deluge hits, so loud and heavy, it nearly drowns out the show. Wind lashes rain against the windows, like it’s trying to break in, and angry thunder splits the air. The boat rocks beneath me, wobbling violently as the lines battle the storm.
I lean forward and turn on the show’s captions, telling myself it’ll be over soon. Fast-moving storms like this don’t last long. Heck, people out West who deal with tornadoes would probably go out and dance in this weather.
One hour later, my hunch proves correct. Rain pummels the boat and the sky still growls, but the wild intensity has calmed. I open the radar on my phone to see that Garnet Shores is now swimming in a swath of dark green. All that red’s moved on.
The worry recedes, and I pause the show, slipping out of bed. My bare feet touch down, the carpet unusually cool against my skin.
No. Not cool.
Wet.
It’s just a spill. All the rattling must have shaken my water bottle off the…
Shelf. Where my water bottle rests, upright and capped.
Shit.
Trepidation sinks in. If it isn’t my water, it’s a bigger problem—like a leak from the cabin door. A big leak, because the carpet practically squelches underfoot as I approach the entrance.
I snag a towel on the way, hoping it’s enough to plug the crack.
But when I inspect the small wooden door, there’s nothing to plug. The area’s completely dry.
Is…is there a leak in the walls? Some cracked seam?
Feeling foolish, I begin perusing the cabin’s walls, looking for signs of moisture. After checking the right side, I move to the left—and find my feet submerged in a full-blown puddle. I glance down.
Right by the trim, the water is pooling. Which means there’s enough water in here to pool, and the boat is listing to the—oh my god.
Trying to hold panic at bay, I tear the edge of the carpet from the buttons that hold it down. The waterlogged fabric is heavy as I fold it back, revealing what I feared. A hatch to a compartment deep in the boat. The bilge, I think it’s called.
Liquid slips out of the frame and onto the cabin floor.
Digging for courage, I lift the hatch—and find myself staring into an overflowing pool of dirty water.
My heart catapults into my throat as I drop the hatch and lunge for the control panel. The bilge pump switch is on, but the little light beside it is red.
Ohhh shit.
I shove open the cabin door, stand on the sill, and stare with wide eyes at the inch of water flooding the deck, its surface jumping with more heavy rain.
Rain that isn’t stopping any time soon, according to that radar.
I don’t know how much water a boat needs to sink, but I really, really don’t want to find out.
Stumbling back into the cabin, I lunge for my phone, flipping quickly through the renter’s manual for the emergency repair guy’s number.
The ringtone goes on, and on, and on, bringing me to voicemail.
I try again, because the point of being the emergency guy is being available for emergencies, even late at night, but I land at his voicemail again.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, phone trembling as my fingers begin to shake. A gust of wind blows rain into the cabin as I try the boat owner.
Again, voicemail.
I try two more times, fear sinking in its claws with every unanswered ring.
This boat is going to sink. Or at the very least, flood. Damage electronics. Fuck.
I don’t know what to do. I’m not a boat person. There…there might be a bucket around but I don’t know how to repair this, fix this—what to even do.
My fingers are tapping my contact list and scrolling to his name before I even realize. Tears prick my eyes, my system near full-blown panic, as the dial tone rings.
“Please pick up. Please pick up,” I pray, more rain soaking the entrance of the cabin.
“Gray.” His voice, tired and annoyed, hits me like a ton of bricks.
“Grayson,” my voice shakes as much as my hands. “I need help.”
“Eliza?” It’s clear and sharp. Alert. “Where are you?”
“On the boat. The—”
“What do you mean, ‘the boat’?”
“The piece of crap I’m renting out, in Joe’s Marina,” I rush to explain. “The bilge is flooded. The pump isn’t working. No one’s answering and there’s so much water.” My voice cracks on the last word as I fight to keep the panic from paralyzing me.
“I’m on my way.” There’s no hesitation. No big sigh. Just a rustle of movement as he asks, “How much water is there?”
Too much. “It’s leaking up out of the bilge. There’s some in the cabin.”
“Okay. And where are you right now?”
“In the cabin.”
“Alright. You’re going to go to your car and stay there, out of the storm,” he instructs calmly. My entire body latches onto that steadiness, desperate for an anchor. “I’m going to be there in ten minutes. It’s going to be okay.”
“‘Kay,” I manage, not caring how small I sound.
“What slip is the boat in?”
I give him the letter and number.
“Got it. I’m going to hang up so I can make some calls, but call me again if something happens before I get there.”
“Thank you,” I breathe out, hanging up before I start sobbing on the line.
Thunder roars in the distance, drawing me back to the cabin door, to the gallons of water in the boat.
Grayson is coming.
He’s going to fix this.
The realization settles me, enough for me to finally think. I’m not about to sit in my car, useless, waiting for Grayson to come and do all the work.
I’m distressed as hell, but I’m not a damsel.
Rummaging through the cleaning supplies for a bucket, I get to work.