Chapter Thirteen CASEY
Chapter Thirteen
CASEY
My mouse hovers over the blue send button at the bottom of my email; I’m stalling because I’m too chicken to press it. I lean back and cross my arms, staring at my computer screen, trying to figure out if I’m a bad person.
It’s Thursday, late afternoon—my fifth day on board Aurelia —and I haven’t left my suite all day. I’ve been chugging coffee on an empty stomach. I ordered up breakfast earlier, but I only managed to pick at it. I’m not hungry at all. The pancakes and eggs sit cold on their tray behind me.
Sienna came calling a little while ago, asking if I wanted to go down to the pool, but I begged off, saying I had to work. And I do. I’ve been working all morning. We’re docked in Puerto Plata, and I doubt I’ll get to venture off the boat even once today. Outside, the sky is a cheery blue, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect on me.
Gwen’s email last night did this to me. It was the catalyst for the downward spiral I’m currently enduring with clenched teeth. Her critique of my work felt especially harsh. I stayed up late last night, rereading what I sent her, disappointed to find that she was right in her assessment. What did I expect she’d say when I delivered Phillip’s canned responses to those ridiculous questions?
I went to bed and woke up this morning feeling as though I was failing at the very last important thing left in my life. What do I have outside of my work? At the moment, nothing really.
Over the last few years, my life has been chiseled down to a single goal: make it as a travel journalist, which will get me promoted and allow me to leave my small life behind. It’s why I’m on this cruise. It’s why I’ve put in the hours at Bon Voyage , working a menial job I can’t stand.
So then why am I not going for it?
Why am I not giving this assignment everything I have?
The answer is obvious. I’ve prioritized Phillip’s feelings over my own career goals. I’ve tried to have my cake and eat it too.
Ask any noteworthy journalist if they’ve ever had to slightly trample on the feelings and wishes of others for the betterment of a story, and they’ll snort in your face. Of course they have. Gwen didn’t ask me for a puff piece. She wants real and interesting. I’ve given her neither.
So ... I spent the better part of last night and this morning rewriting my special-interest piece about Phillip. Gwen called my first draft stale; she wanted me to delve deeper, so I did. Though at first, I had to force it a bit. I’m a travel journalist at heart, but fortunately, from my first day on this cruise, I’ve found it incredibly easy to write about Phillip. It’s really no challenge at all to describe his demeanor and humanity after spending the last few days witnessing it firsthand. Most of what I wrote is rooted in facts. I included snippets of my conversation with Tyson at that breakfast, as well as my own experiences with Phillip, excluding our bedroom activities, that is. I could have stopped there. Maybe I should have. However ... I also conjectured about his failed relationship with Vivienne and the difficulty he must face as the successor of such a large company. I delved into his personality, the tight control he seems to exact over his life—from the way he dresses to the way he carries himself. I spoke of his past, what little I know of it, and I tried to expand him from a two-dimensional businessman into the complex human he is.
When I finished, I read it back with a twisted sense of dread. From a journalist’s perspective, I thought I’d done it, woven the pieces of the man together to give the reader the full picture of him. As a friend, a—a lover ... well, it feels exploitive to write about Phillip in this way without his consent. He’s been so tight lipped about everything; even the interview answers he sent were restrained and polished ... bland, for lack of a better word.
I sit here now, wondering what’s right and wrong, wondering what my grandmother would tell me to do. I picture my future after this cruise, the one where I tell Gwen point blank that I can’t give her what she needs. I fail and slink right back to my old job. I suck it up, find a lonely apartment, start paying rent, and continue living the way I have been, forever and forever.
Then I think of how this article could change my life if Gwen really likes it, if she thinks my writing is worth investing in, if other publications catch wind of the story and it really gets picked up. This could be life changing, I’m sure of it.
So whether or not it’s the polite or nice thing to do, after I read through my new exposé about Phillip for the twentieth time, I send it to Gwen.
I also send it to Phillip.
It’s a bold move on my part, especially considering I have no idea what his reaction will be (spoiler, it won’t be pleasant), but it’s the least I can do. Over the coming days and weeks, if Gwen approves the story, someone from Bon Voyage will reach out to Phillip’s team for approval and input. He’ll read what I’ve written about him eventually . It feels important that it at least come directly from me first so that he can prepare himself now rather than later.
I sit back on my couch, my hands shaking from adrenaline.
If I made a mistake, well ... there’s no going back now.
I stare at my inbox almost as if I expect them both to reply to me right away, but nothing happens. I refresh once and then again; there are no new emails.
After a few minutes, I close my laptop and look around. I’m itching to get out of this suite. I could try to hunt down Sienna at the pool, but I’m too scared to wander around the ship. I’d rather not cross paths with Phillip just yet. Better to give him a chance to read the article ... a moment to cool down if he needs it.
Instead, I take a book out onto my balcony. I have every intention of reclining back on one of the loungers and losing myself in my book, but instead, I lean against the rail and stare out at Puerto Plata, the tiny slice of the Dominican Republic that stretches out in front of me. It’s midafternoon. I’ve missed the planned excursions for the day, but nothing’s stopping me from doing a little bit of exploring on my own. I barely think it before I’m already acting, throwing on a dress and comfortable sandals, grabbing my purse and wallet, sunglasses and sun hat.
I race through the halls of the cruise ship, hurrying toward the gangplank. I’m scared I’ll bump into Phillip, but the moment my feet touch solid ground again, I breathe easy. The cruise port is right in the heart of the city. Freight and cargo are getting unloaded; taxis whiz past; music comes from every direction; and people are everywhere : sitting outside clustered together on plastic chairs, playing cards; walking along the sidewalks; riding bicycles and motorcycles, sometimes piling an entire family onto a single bike. The city is eclectic, and once you bypass the overtly touristy parts—the pink street and the umbrella street—you see the real lives of the locals. I walk past old, sagging buildings in need of a fresh coat of paint, mismatched architecture, grocery stores, and laundromats. There’s color everywhere as if the city has a personal vendetta against painting things white or gray or beige. The beauty of Puerto Plata is evident everywhere, highlighted most prominently by the huge mountain that serves as the city’s backdrop, looming over the squat one- or two-story buildings. The mountain is part of the Isabel de Torres National Park, and I find out by asking a few nice locals (who help me with my cobbled-together Spanish) that I can take a cable car to the very top.
I rush in that direction, wanting to stay on foot rather than hop in a taxi. I’m documenting everything, snapping photos with my phone, trying to absorb every last detail. Gwen hasn’t seemed all that interested in my review of the trip so far, but I’m hoping I can change that. I want to prove to her that this interview is a stepping stone to bigger and better things. I’ll write up a review of Puerto Plata and send it along anyway. I’ll show her that I’m eager for more assignments and possibly— hopefully —a long-awaited promotion.
It’s a thirty-minute walk from the downtown district to the Puerto Plata cable car, where a long line of tourists waits to take the ten-minute journey up to the top of the mountain. I manage to make it in the last group for the day, and we get crammed into the cable car like sardines. I don’t mind. Of the twelve of us, only two people speak English. I hear French rattled off quickly. Portuguese too. It would be stifling inside if not for the open windows. Everybody carves out spots at the sides as we rise over the city, lifted by a cable into the air along the side of the mountain. My stomach swoops with the ascent, and a little laugh of delight spills out of me. The woman to my left does the same, and we smile at each other, bonding over this unique, shared experience.
I know it’s silly, but when we reach the very top of the mountain and I stand overlooking the entire city of Puerto Plata and the surrounding ocean, I can’t help but tear up. It’s more than I can take in all at once, not just the view itself, but also the stark difference between this day and all the ones that have come before it. Today, I’m standing on top of a freaking mountain. Last Thursday at this exact same time, I was sitting in a crappy hotel room, staring at the inside of a mostly empty minifridge, trying to decide which frozen dinner I wanted to cook (unsuccessfully) in the microwave.
I’m crying because of everything I’ve done wrong. I hate that I’ve wasted so much. I don’t mean the years I spent taking care of my grandmother. No, I don’t regret that one bit. But she died last year, and I’ve lived every day since her passing as if I’m dead too. How did I not see it before? The monotony of it? The sinking dead-end job?
I breathe in a sense of conviction, staring out over the city. I know I’ve done the right thing by submitting that article to Gwen. I’ve shaken free of it all. I’ve really put myself out there now. There’s no going back.