14
Maika
“I’d forgotten just how messed up in the head she is…” I mutter, finishing the last sip of my coffee. “When the hell haven’t we been professional?”
I toss the paper cup into a recycling bin on the deck and fix my gaze on the corner of the bulkhead where Helen has just disappeared, practically running.
I take a couple of deep breaths, letting the salty breeze from the Ligurian Sea fill my lungs until I manage to slip the “everything’s under control” mask back onto my face.
“For once in your life.” How fucking unfair she is.
“What I’m not is a pressure cooker on legs. I don’t know how she manages to live with so much stress.”
The deck is beginning to stir. Some elderly passengers are already strolling around with cameras slung around their necks; others are yawning, huddled in windbreakers that barely shield them from the morning breeze.
The outline of the port of Genoa is already visible on the horizon, and before any misfortune strikes—translation: before Helen opens a disciplinary case against me—I head to the disco on Deck Seven, where I’ve arranged to meet my team.
Yes, I’ve read the email from headquarters too.
It’s not that the arrival of the Transmarine auditors doesn’t concern me.
It matters to me, a lot; our contract renewal is on the line.
But panicking has never made a disembarkation go smoothly.
On the contrary, fear is the quickest way for an entertainer to end up taking it out on a passenger.
When I push open the club’s double doors, almost everyone is spread out on the velvet sofas.
Lara is sitting on the back of an armchair, tossing a stress ball.
Leo and Nico are whispering next to the DJ booth, while Iván arranges some subfolders by color code on the mixing console.
Every ship in the world needs an Iván to keep the entertainment department from descending into chaos.
“He’d get along great with Helen,” I think, with an involuntary pang.
“Good morning, sailors,” I greet them, letting the doors close behind me.
“I see some championship-worthy dark circles under your eyes, which proves that the entertainment team did their job at last night’s party.
” I walk over to the central table and lean on the edge.
“Let’s get down to business—time is of the essence. ”
The group settles back into the sofas. The murmur of voices dies down instantly. Even Lara catches the ball and tucks it into the pocket of her company sweatshirt, a logistical miracle that already deserves a mention in the logbook.
“I imagine those of you on duty have opened the company’s internal email,” I say, sweeping the room with my gaze.
Leo snorts and rubs his neck. “The inspectors from headquarters are coming on board tomorrow in Civitavecchia. They’re going to audit everything: punctuality, coordination between departments, passenger satisfaction surveys, and, in short, whether we deserve to keep getting paid or if they’ll have us disembarked at the next port. ”
Leo lets out a nervous laugh. Everyone is tense. I can tell by the way they’re holding their pens. This audit is going to be a turning point for the crew’s standing. But, honestly, I won’t let fear paralyze us.
“Listen to me carefully,” I tell them, slamming my palms down on the table.
“No panic mode allowed. We’re going to do our jobs exactly as we do every day: with energy, with a smile, and without any weird improvisations on the fly.
Tomorrow, the key isn’t creativity—it’s those damn clocks.
Punctuality is going to save our skins.”
“How many hours do we have before we head to Naples?” Leo asks, his notebook open.
“Eleven hours from when the gangway opens,” I reply.
“The trip to Rome will take at least eight; the round trip will be about two and a half hours if we’re lucky, depending on the traffic we encounter leaving Civitavecchia and how long it takes the passengers to realize that the meeting point isn’t just a suggestion. ”
Several of them laugh, and the atmosphere in the disco visibly relaxes.
Good. That’s what I’m after. I want them to breathe, to remember that they’re damn good at this.
I want them to understand that behind a massive excursion there are schedules, logistics, and boarding lists, sure, but also families who’ve saved all year to see something spectacular.
Our job is to make sure that experience doesn’t feel like a military march designed by a soulless algorithm.
I pull out the printed folders and slide them across the table.
“Here are the breakdowns for the buses. Each of you will be in charge of forty-six passengers. Almost all of them are couples and families. Keep an eye on the kids at the bus stops—they get distracted by any ice cream stand. And for bus two, which is the priority-fare group, be as patient as possible with the pace; we have quite a few older people on board.”
“Got it,” Leo nods.
Lara gives a thumbs-up.
“Explain the itinerary over the bus microphone in a clear voice and without rushing,” I insist. “Time for the sightseeing tour, rest stops, exact free time, and return to the bus without a single minute of leeway. Drill the schedules into them. No ‘I think we’ll meet at four.’ No ‘I thought I understood.’ Exact time, exact stop, and take roll call before the driver puts the bus in first gear. ”
Leo nods, furiously jotting down notes.
“Will Officer Müller be supervising the gangway?” Lara asks suddenly.
My stomach clenches suddenly, as if we’d been caught in a sudden swell. Her wounded gaze from this morning comes to mind, the edge in her voice, and that index finger drawing an invisible line between us.
“Our thing.” How brave of me, labeling things in my head when we can’t even walk past each other in a hallway without causing a short circuit.
“Müller will be the first to set up security checks on the gangway,” I warn them, forcing a smile. “So nobody better give her a reason to use us as shark bait.”
The laughter returns, clean and necessary. I keep smiling because I need it as a shield. Because if I stop joking, it’ll show too clearly in my eyes how much what she thinks of me affects me; it’ll be obvious that a single word from her has the power to sour even my morning coffee.
“I don’t want any cracks in the teams,” I conclude, regaining the necessary seriousness. “The success of the itinerary depends on this, as does the passengers’ mood and ensuring the inspectors don’t return to base eager to sign dismissal letters.”
I go over the final details of the local guides’ schedules, and when I’m done, the team leaves with a much more focused attitude. It’s not that they’re marching happily into battle, but at least they’re no longer staring at the floor looking for emergency exits.
That’s my role on this ship. Not to shout and put out fires once they’re already consuming the bridge, but to hand out fire extinguishers before anyone even smells smoke.
“All right, let’s get moving,” I encourage them.
“Head down to the storage room on Deck Zero and check the group stickers, the bottled water, and the radio terminals. And above all, arm yourselves with patience. Rome is a marvel, but it has the strange ability to turn functional adults into children on a school field trip.”
The team scatters amid jokes toward the crew elevators, and I’m left alone in the middle of the dance floor, watching the service lights fade in the corners of the room. I lean against the bar, exhaling all the air I’ve been holding in my lungs without realizing it.
Helen’s silhouette keeps popping into my head, uninvited.
Her look of sheer terror. That almost pathological need to put up a concrete wall between us the moment we get too close.
Her contempt has hurt me; I won’t deny it.
But behind her armor—that of a straight-laced officer—I’ve seen the same girl from three years ago again: the one drowning in the fear of failure, the one who fears that someone else’s mistake will rob her of the opportunity of a lifetime.
Helen doesn’t want those stripes out of ego; she needs them to prove to herself that she’s worthy in a world that doesn’t forgive a single mistake.
She wants a safe place at sea where no one can question her worth.
It’s a goal she’s been fighting tooth and nail for ever since I’ve known her.
And, even though her contempt hurts me, I understand her perfectly.
And I’m not going to be the rock against which her career is wrecked. Not like it happened in the past.
I’m walking back to my cabin. As I pass the mirror in the crew quarters, I glance at myself out of the corner of my eye.
The collar of my uniform hides the marks Helen’s hands left on my skin last night, but that’s not what I’m looking for in my reflection.
It’s the shadow of disappointment that furrows my brow.
It’s not going to change. No matter how many seasons I spend at sea, to her I’ll always be the irresponsible one, the unpredictable one, the “unprofessional” one.
Even if I give it my all at every event on the ship to prove otherwise.
I enter my cabin, lock the door, and sit on the bunk, glancing sideways at the Rome excursion brochures scattered across the desk. The stop in Genoa will be short, but these hours in port will do me good to go over what I need to do.
I lie on my back, staring at the panels on the cabin ceiling, and close my eyes. I let the dull vibration of the engines and the hum of the exhaust fans lull me. To anyone else, it would seem like claustrophobic torture, but to me, after so many contracts, it makes me feel like I’m at home.
I open my eyes and burst out laughing.
“What a shipwreck, Maika…” I whisper to the walls.
Because it is. Because what’s between Helen and me isn’t some new game in this contract. She’s still the same rigid woman I left behind in that room, the same one whose stability I shattered when I decided to screw everything up and just walk out.
And me…
“I’m still the same idiot I’ve always been.”
I sit up suddenly in bed, running my hands roughly over my face.
I can’t afford to be her curse twice. Not with the auditors about to arrive and Helen convinced that I’m a public danger to her service record.
If life on board teaches you anything, it’s that gossip travels faster than the ship itself.
I’m not going to be the reason Transmarine denies her a promotion, even if that means this is the last contract we share with the same company.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. Our chat screen is still there, stuck on text messages from another era that I never had the courage to delete.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I could type something. A brief, mature message. But I give up and lock the screen. I know her too well. I know that right now, the only thing she needs from me is some distance, not well-meaning words. Pressuring her will only make her raise the wall a few inches higher.
So I get up, organize the folders on my desk, and spend the next forty minutes going over the VIP passenger lists, the Civitavecchia drivers’ phone numbers, and the medical insurance coverage for the third time until my mind anchors itself to real, cold, manageable data.
There’s no way to organize love into an Excel spreadsheet. Rome, fortunately, is another story.
A few quick knocks on the door pull me away from the papers.
“Yes?”
The door opens just a few centimeters, and Lara’s head peeks in with that typical smile of someone bearing bad news.
“I don’t want to rush you or scare you,” she begins—which, in the language of cheerfulness, means exactly the opposite—“but Helen is in the tour office asking for you.”
I stare at her, not blinking.
“Wonderful. Does she have that angry dog look on her face?”
Lara widens her smile.
“I’d say the vein in her neck is practically bulging.”
I jump to my feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in my uniform.
“Well, with that ‘almost,’ we still have time to stop her from passing out on the office deck.”
Lara laughs, making room for me in the hallway.
Before crossing the threshold, I take one last look inside the cabin.
If Helen has asked for distance, she’s going to have an entire ocean between us. If the auditors want perfection, they’re going to witness the best performance of my career. And if Rome intends to trip us up tomorrow, it’s going to have to try a lot harder.