Chapter 12
While the elder Warrens settle in and everyone else gets ready for the evening, I decide to head up to the top deck for an hour before dinner.
But before I leave my cabin, I notice my spanking new sketchbook has left its place in the bottom of my t-shirt drawer and has somehow come to lie, pencils and all, on the cabin desk.
Either Patricia’s arrival was the intro to an episode of the Twilight zone, or Gia’s trying to tell me something.
I snatch up the book, out of guilt or curiosity, I’m not sure, and stuff them in my bag. Unfortunately, Jules has other plans.
“Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?” she stops me before I even reach the stairs.
“Yes?” I answer skeptically, looking down at my brown slacks. “Is that a problem?”
“No, but…” she ducks her head into her cabin, making sure Harry isn’t in there. “Why don’t you borrow something of mine? I have a gold dress that would look stunning on you!”
I cringe. Technically, Jules and I are the same size—except for her double D chest and my insanely long praying mantis legs. And she looks so excited, I’d hate to let her down.
“Ok. If you really want me to.”
She squeals as she leads me into her cabin.
“But I’m NOT wearing mascara.”
Walking into Jules and Harry’s closet is like walking into a Neiman Marcus catalogue.
The woman I’ve scarcely ever seen in anything but long skirts and tank tops has brought so many outfits on board I’m surprised the ship is still floating.
She pulls out a shimmering champagne empire dress with embroidery around the collar and holds it gleefully towards me.
“That’s not a dress, Jules,” I tell her. “It’s an art installation. I’ve seen wedding gowns more casual.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You used to love dressing up!”
“When I was seven.”
But that’s exactly what this feels like—dress up.
I step into the champagne monstrosity and am immediately transported to the days of dowries and oil barons.
The boning is so tight in the waist I can barely breathe.
I’m starting to see why all the movie heroines run off with pirates or penniless artists.
“Do you have anything… simpler?” I ask her, and she takes out a floor-length black Givenchy halter dress. I may not be on the actual Titanic, but this definitely feels like a sinking ship.
“No,” I shake my head, fully aware that it costs more than my rent. “I can’t wear that.”
“C’mon, Stella, it’ll look amazing on you! I’m too short to pull it off, anyway. It needs your legs to do it justice.”
I sigh, switching out for the black gown. When I turn around in the mirror, I realize she’s not wrong. The backless silhouette fits me like a glove, hugging my curves in all the right places. Only the chest is too big, but if I don’t move my arms too much, it stays put.
“Gorgeous,” she says.
“As long as I don’t bend down. Or move my arms. Or breathe.”
“Oh, stop it. Even you have to admit you look stunning.”
Stunning for who? I feel out of place in something so formal, but then again, I feel out of place here period.
I swallow my pride and allow her to zip it up.
Jules hides stress well, but even though she’s smiling, I can tell how hard she’s focusing on making a good impression on Harry’s family.
So if dressing me in couture gives her one less thing to worry about tonight, I think I can suck it up (literally, because this thing doesn’t have one inch of give).
And who knows—maybe dressing like a Warren will make me feel more like one.
When I’m all fluffed and feathered, I creep up the outdoor staircase to avoid passing the bridge.
Far too pleased with myself for avoiding an inevitable showdown of awkwardness with El Capitan, I wave open the doors to the sundeck (look at me speaking boat[cj1] !) and step right into a Van Gogh painting.
Oranges and misty pinks hemorrhage across the horizon as the sun prepares for its grand exit.
What’s that rhyme about sea storms—red sky at night, sailor’s delight?
Either way, it’s nothing short of breathtaking.
I reach down to my bag and pull out the sketchbook.
That familiar voice telling me this is a waste of time—that I’m better off sticking to lectures and lesson plans—tugs at my stomach, but I ignore it.
I think of the Tiger shark I saw earlier—of her powerful body and bone-chilling sway across the sea floor.
If I can survive a run in with her, I can certainly mess around with a couple pencils.
Slowly, I move my pencil across the page, doing my best to capture her lethal edges.
It’s clunkier than I’d like, but not as terrible as I’d expect after such a long break.
After a few moments, the full form of an expertly-built predator begins to take shape, staring out at me with ancient, predatory eyes.
I flip the page and move onto new subjects.
Beautiful Jules in her snorkel mask and giant lifejacket on the back of the kayak.
Gia and Jim at the dinner table, their hands waving, Jim’s mustachioed face tilted back mid-laugh.
And behind them, Captain Caleb standing in the doorway, his mouth turned down like a displeased toddler.
But there’s something about his face I can’t get right.
If I close my eyes, I can see him: eyes quietly livid.
Stupid, perfect jaw clenched as he contemplates my demise.
But somehow, it’s not right. I erase him and try again until the paper begins to wear thin.
There’s something I’m missing in his expression—something that reads less cartoon villain and more human being.
I slam the sketchbook closed. I’m not sure why I’m even bothering to try. Despite what Jules thinks, I’m not an artist—not anymore. I don’t need to embarrass myself by trying to catch a dream I let go of years ago.
I stand, looking out for one last glimpse of the darkening water before heading back towards the salon.
But when I reach the stern deck, I immediately deflate.
Hovering beside some large white crane thingy (that’s boat terminology for I have no idea) are Jim and Caleb, their attention focused on a large scuff that definitely violates Arthur and Patricia’s ‘no visible flaws’ policy.
They obviously haven’t seen me yet because Caleb’s face is contorted into a laugh so genuine, it makes my stomach flutter a little.
Traitor, I almost whisper to it aloud as I try to sneak backwards through the sliding door.
But I only succeed in making a loud “thud” noise as I back into the already-closed glass, causing both of their heads to jolt up in unison.
I swear Caleb’s eyes fly open when he sees me, perhaps in shock that his mortal enemy is capable of looking like something other than a tangle of seaweed.
But he quickly regains his stone-like composure.
“Stella,” he greets me hesitantly, as if waiting for some trap to spring. Jim, on the other hand, is visibly bowled-over to see me wearing something that didn’t come from a rolled-up ball in the bottom of my duffel.
“Hi,” I give them a sheepish wave.
“Heard you did some shark whispering, mate!” Jim beams with pride. “I can’t lie, I’m a bit jealous.”
“Well next time, you’re welcome to take my place,” I tell him, and mean it. “I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for the rest of my life.”
“She’s exaggerating,” Caleb says. “She was braver than she had any right to be.”
Brave? Is that a… compliment? From Caleb?
“That’s what I like to hear!” Jim says. But I can’t take my eyes off Caleb.
For some reason, he’s still staring at me, and for the first time in days, it’s not like a stain he’d like to scrub off his shoe.
Maybe our tentative truce from this morning will hold, and I really don’t have to worry about him making my trip even more uncomfortable.
Or, more likely, all it takes for him to treat me like a human is couture and a hair-dryer.
What a snob.
The automatic doors swish open before I can say another word, sparing me from any awkward small talk with Caleb.
“Stella,” Jules calls excitedly as she emerges, holding up a pair of glittering chandelier earrings like a Tinder man with a fish. “Stella, you forgot—oh!”
She drops her hand as she clocks Jim and Caleb by the crane.
“Hey guys. Am I missing the party?”
“No party here,” Jim assures her, “We were just chatting with Stella about—”
“Ropes!” I explain, grabbing a striped one from the hook nearest me and knocking the neat coil all over the deck. Caleb takes a sharp breath in.
“Lines,” he says under his breath as he collects the loose tangle from the ground. “On a ship, they’re called lines.
I roll my eyes. The pedantic jerk literally can’t help himself, can he? I stick on a smile for Jules and resist the urge to strangle him with said “line.”
“Actually, I’m glad I caught you both,” she says as I step towards her. “Quick question!”
I’m mid-step slipping past her towards the exit when she asks the boys, “You’re friendly with the other yacht crews in Denarau, right?”
Oh no. I stop in my tracks, whirling around to try and stop what’s next. Because I know where this is going. Up until now, I’d completely forgotten what she said on day one about asking the crew if they knew my mystery urchin man.
The many brownies I consumed at lunch rise in my chest, and I’m torn between the desire to sprint downstairs and hide in my closet and the urge to physically gag Jules before she can utter another word.
“Some of them,” Caleb answers nonchalantly. “Why? What’s up?”
Jules is about to run me over with a high-speed train is what’s up. I quickly choose the ‘hide’ option and attempt to skitter towards the stairs before she calls, “Stella, wait! What was the name of the guy you met in Denarau?”
I bite my lip to keep from screaming in embarrassment.
“Oh,” I grit out, “I don’t remember—”
“Did you meet a fella on the island, Stella?” Jim asks, raising both eyebrows. “You certainly don’t waste any time!”
“She met him on the beach, but she didn’t get his number,” Jules cuts in for me, and I’m positive that my face, at this point, is lobster red. No—make that fire engine.
Jules smiles conspiratorially.
“He spent half an hour pulling urchin spines out of her foot!”
I dart a quick glance at Caleb, who’s expression is, as usual, completely unreadable. But he must be panicking too. If it wasn’t obvious who she was talking about before, it certainly is now.
“He was just being nice,” I try to cover, my pitchy QVC voice coming in full-force. “It wasn’t romantic or anything.”
“Oh, please!” she barks. “You said he was, and I quote, ‘sweet, hilarious, and the sexiest man you’d ever seen!’”
Hearing the words come out of her mouth is like viewing a car crash in slow motion: only this time, I’m in the passenger seat. Caleb coughs, loudly, and I feel all semblance of dignity leaving my body faster than Matthew downing tequila shots.
“You alright, Cap?” Jim asks him, but it’s me who’s about to asphyxiate. Caleb puts his hand to his mouth.
“Just a—um—inhaled some dust.”
As if there is any dust to inhale on this pristine vessel. I wince. Any more of this torturous humiliation and Jules will have to use her carefully-curated wedding florals for my funeral.
“I was exaggerating,” I try to cover, looking anywhere except at Caleb’s face. “He was moderately attractive at best.”
“Stella, you don’t have to downplay it,” my horribly misguided sister assures me. “Maybe they know the guy!”
I’m avoiding meeting Caleb’s gaze at all costs, but to my horror, he asks, “What did you say this mystery man’s name was, Stella?”
My eyes shoot up, and am shocked to see a sliver of a smile creeping up around the left side of his mouth. He’s not panicking at all—that traitor is actually enjoying this. I make a mental note to impale him with the antique harpoon gun in the movie room as soon as I figure out how to use it.
“Uh…” panic floods my already addled brain. I search frantically for a reasonable answer, but for some reason, the only thing that comes through is the coffee-stained copy of Great Expectations sitting on my nightstand.
“Herbert,” I announce loudly.
Herbert?! Seriously, Stella?
“Huh,” Jim cocks his head. “Can’t say I know him.”
“Probably on one of the commercial rigs,” Caleb covers, and it looks like that absolute jerk is actually trying not to laugh. “We don’t run into them much.”
Of course he’s enjoying watching me be subjected to the extreme humiliation of my mortal enemy discovering I was once into him. Caleb already thinks I’m beach trash—but beach trash that thinks he’s the sexiest man alive? I could not be more mortified if I were standing here in my granny panties.
“Well, it was worth a shot!” Jules says nonchalantly as she meets me on the stairs. “If you’ll excuse us, I don’t want to be late and give Harry a heart attack.”
That’s my cue. I pull up the hem of my dress and leap down the stairs as quickly as I can without risking a faceplant. But before I’m out of earshot, I hear Caleb’s villainous voice.
“You’ve probably dodged a bullet there, Stella,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear. “Hasn’t anyone told you we yachties are all bad news?”
My whole body tenses as I reach the next floor.
I’ve spent the last four months bending over backwards to avoid my ex—exactly what I’m supposed to be taking a break from right now.
If I’m going to have any hope of actually relaxing this week, I’m going to have to figure out a way not to get so flustered by Caleb.
What was it Joanna said about lizard brain?
I think mine might be full crocodile by now.