Helen
The meeting begins late in the afternoon, just as scheduled. That, at least, reassures me a little. Just a little.
Technical Room Two is completely devoid of glamour.
It’s a rectangular room, lit by harsh white lights.
In the center stands a long table with a gray surface, and at the back, a screen where I’ve already projected the main blueprint of the Marine IV.
In front of me, everyone pretends to be awake, though some already have exhaustion hanging from their necks.
My reports are perfectly organized, the blueprints color-coded, the protocols printed out, and I have a detailed list of points I plan to go over without deviating a single millimeter.
In security, I’ve learned that improvisation often masquerades as creativity until someone trips, screams, or ends up in the infirmary.
Maika walks in three minutes early. Exactly three minutes early.
She’s wearing the company uniform, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, and a notebook stuffed with loose papers.
“Loose papers at a coordination meeting. Great.” Immediately, I feel my blood pressure start drafting its resignation letter.
“Good afternoon—or rather, good evening—everyone,” she greets us.
Several respond enthusiastically. “Traitors.”
Maika sits right across from me. Because, of course, if the universe can choose between making my life easier or placing Maika Aranda at the perfect distance to watch her lips as she speaks, it chooses the second option and laughs heartily.
“All right,” I say, taking control before anyone turns this into a casual welcome chat. “Let’s go over the evacuation routes and crowd control for the evening events the cruise ship has planned.”
Maika opens her notebook.
“Perfect,” she replies calmly.
Captain Duarte sits at the head of the table. At his side are the heads of operations, catering, maintenance, and reception. The cruise ship’s entire key team. People who are hoping this works out.
I hope it works too, although a part of me—the most honest and least convenient part—knows that ever since Maika walked through the door, this meeting has turned into a game of darts.
I project the close-up.
“For the opening party, the stage will be on deck eight. Recommended maximum capacity: three hundred eighty people. Two main evacuation routes to stairwells B and C, and a secondary route through the side corridor leading to the elevators, which are blocked off for operational use. There will be security personnel at these four points.”
I point to each area with the laser pointer.
And of course, Maika raises her hand. “God, but it hasn’t even been two minutes. What have I done to deserve this?”
Okay, I need to focus.
“Yes, Maika,” I say, and unfortunately, it comes out with a hint of sarcasm.
“Can I jump in?”
“That’s why we’re here,” I reply.
“The secondary route through the side hallway isn’t going to work the way you expect if we put the music and the bar near the entrance. People always move toward where they see lights, drinks, or a group of people dancing.”
A couple of people smile. I, of course, do not.
“The signage will be clearly visible,” I reply.
“Yes, but a passenger with a drink in her hand, elegant sandals, and zero sense of direction won’t read those signs.
I’m telling you this from experience,” she notes, with a professional smile on her lips.
“She’ll follow the crowd, the noise, or the guy who thinks he knows it all because he’s already been on three cruises and is wearing a shirt with palm trees on it. ”
Silvia, from the deck, lets out a little giggle. I look at her and she composes herself instantly.
“I understand your point,” I say, “but the signage is part of the evacuation protocol.”
“I’m not saying you should remove it. I’m suggesting you accompany it with entertainment or security staff to guide the flow from the start.
If we get passengers used to moving in two directions from the beginning, in the event of an incident they won’t feel like we’ve suddenly changed the map of the world. ”
I watch her in silence for a few seconds. I hate to admit that the idea makes sense.
“The entertainment staff isn’t trained to direct evacuations.”
“I’m not talking about evacuations per se, but about the flow leading up to them. About preventing congestion before it arises.”
“Congestion is avoided by limiting capacity and demarcating spaces.”
“Also by reading people.”
That’s the essential difference. To Maika, people are waves: they’re felt, anticipated, and accompanied. To me, they’re variables: they’re calculated, contained, and protected.
And the worst part is that we’re both right. But only one of us has printed, backed-up protocols, plus an assignment I’ve earned through hard work.
“Reading people doesn’t replace a safety plan,” I reply.
“I never said that.”
“But that’s what you implied.”
“No. You’ve decided to interpret it that way.”
Silence settles over the table, and eyes dart from her to me as if they were watching a tennis match.
Captain Duarte folds his hands.
“Let’s get back to the point.”
I nod.
“My proposal stands.”
Maika rests her forearms on the table.
“And mine is to add two mobile ushers. One near the bar and another by the side entrance. No vests, no cop-like appearance. Just guiding people in a natural way. People obey better when they don’t feel like they’re being corrected all the time.”
If her idea were absurd, it would be easy to shoot it down. But Maika has never had absurd ideas. Chaotic, unpredictable, and dangerously charming, yes. Absurd, no.
“I need guarantees that this will work,” I demand.
“You’ll have names, positions, and schedules.”
“And radio communication.”
“Not all my entertainers carry radios during events,” she clarifies.
“At events supervised by the security team, yes.”
“Sure…”
Her answer hangs in the air as I get one of her smiles. I want to throw the laser pointer at her, but I’m a professional. A total professional. Besides, she’d probably catch it midair and give me some irritating comeback.
We move on to the next floor plan.
Little by little, the temperature in the room seems to rise.
Or maybe it’s just me. Maika looks directly at me, and for a moment, everything closes in: the table, the plans, the voices, even the air.
Her eyes are dark, alive. And suddenly, I remember another room, another plan, another argument.
Her leaning over the table, laughing because I had called her proposal “statistically irresponsible.”
“I love it when you insult me with metaphors,” she said to me then.
I almost smiled. Almost.
I return to the present before my memory commits a greater indiscretion.
“Security isn’t based on good intentions,” I state after reviewing another of the protocols.
This is the closest thing to a pitched battle.
“Nor do people function as mere lines on a map,” she replies.
“Lines on a map save lives when everyone loses their cool.”
“And someone with field experience can prevent them from losing it in the first place.”
We look at each other. I don’t know who breathes first. I just know that the room is too quiet.
Captain Duarte clears his throat.
“Ladies…” he says, asking us to look at him.
We both turn toward him.
“It’s clear that you have different approaches,” he continues. “And this ship needs both. Helen, your responsibility is to ensure that nothing strays beyond safety margins. Maika, yours is to ensure that those margins apply to real passengers, not ideal ones.”
Maika nods. So do I, though it’s hard for me.
“I need you to reach an agreement before the full-scale drill,” he adds. “I don’t want two parallel plans. I want just one.”
“Just one. With Maika. Fantastic.”
“That’s fine with me,” she says.
I look at her. I’m not going to let her win this round.
“Me neither.”
That’s a lie. There are plenty of problems. The first one wears a light blue shirt and has the bad habit of looking at me as if she could still see right through me and read everything inside me.
The captain considers the matter settled, and we continue with the meeting.
But every time Maika speaks, my body registers her without missing a single detail.
There are her lips, her voice, her hands, the way she tilts her head when listening, the ease with which she transforms an objection into a practical proposal.
And it bothers me. It bothers me because I don’t want to feel admiration for her.
I don’t want to remember that there was a time when that ability to adapt seemed brilliant to me, that seeing her improvise with a smile while I held the structure of the plan together made me feel that together we could handle anything.
“Together.” What a dangerous word.
When the meeting ends, I gather my papers without looking at anyone.
“Helen,” Maika says from across the table.
I don’t look up right away. I need a second to process how much it turns me on to hear my name on her lips.
“Yes?”
“I’ll send you the proposal before noon.”
“Do it by eleven.”
Her mouth curves into a smile.
“Sure. Before eleven.”
“And no doodles in the margins.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Gonzalo, who appears behind me, bursts out laughing.
I look at him.
“Got something to add?”
“No. I’m just a piece of furniture,” he replies.
“Well, be quieter, then.”
Maika chuckles under her breath, and her laughter follows me out into the hallway.
I leave the room with frustration squeezing my ribs. It’s not just the argument—I know how to handle arguments. It’s her. It’s the way she appears, speaks, moves the air, the oxygen that allows me to breathe, and suddenly, everything I’ve built to keep her at a distance seems made of paper.
I reach my cabin with the folder pressed against my chest, close the door, and finally enjoy the silence. I set the documents on the table and sit down.
I should take a shower, rest, or stop thinking about Maika.
Instead, I open my laptop and search for the historical reports from the past couple of years from Transmarine’s entertainment department.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Well, actually, I do know.
I need to prove something to myself. I need to confirm that my distrust is based on professional grounds and not just a scar with a first and last name.
I filter by coordinator: Maika Aranda, and the records pop up immediately. Previous cruises, evening events, reported incidents. I cross-reference the data with the fleet average and freeze. “It can’t be.” The events coordinated by Maika have fewer incidents than the average.
I close my eyes.
“Damn it.”
“This doesn’t change anything,” I tell myself firmly.
“The fact that she’s good at her job doesn’t erase what she did.
It doesn’t erase that meeting, or my name singled out in a report I didn’t deserve, or the weeks I spent wondering if my career would be ruined by someone else’s silence. It doesn’t change anything.”
I look back at the screen. Maika is good. No, she’s excellent. And I already knew that. I knew it before I got angry, before the disaster, before her absence and lack of support hurt me so much.
And suddenly, the memories open up like a door.
A night at a club on another ship. Violet lights on the deck, the black sea around us speckled with moonlight, the music vibrating beneath my shoes.
Maika in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by passengers, dancing effortlessly.
She laughed, spun, raised her hands, and led an entire group with such fluidity that no one noticed she was working.
She made people move exactly where she wanted them to, as if it were spontaneous choreography.
I watched her from a corner, radio in hand.
I should have been checking the entrances.
I was, sort of. But she shone. Not in an exaggerated way, but because she felt comfortable in the chaos; she understood people’s joy, and that allowed her to get what she wanted.
Where I saw risk, she saw rhythm—and passion, too.
At one point, Maika turned toward me, looked at me, and smiled. All the noise in the world seemed to turn down a notch. I remember thinking, “Watch out, Helen, you’re going to fall.”
And boy, did I fall.
I shake my head, let out a sigh, and return to the present. I rest my elbows on the table and run a hand over my face. This is ridiculous. I’m on the Marine IV to prove I deserve stability, not to dig up a past that should remain alongside Tutankhamun’s sarcophagus. Maika is a coworker.
But my heart, which seems to live in a world of its own, beats for her.
I close the report. The next step is to work together on a common plan. “One plan.” The captain is right. The ship needs order. And, as much as it pains me, it also needs Maika.
“I won’t let her distract me and throw me off balance again.”
But when my memory insists on showing me Maika dancing under violet lights, her skin golden and her eyes shining brighter than the moon, I know the problem isn’t that I can’t stand her. The problem is that a part of me—absurd and stubborn—has never stopped missing her.
“I’d better take a shower and get to work.”