Chapter Eighteen One Step at a Time
Chapter Eighteen
One Step at a Time
Frankie
I have to admit, Antibes is stupidly beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes you question your entire life’s trajectory—like, maybe I should have gone into art dealing or diamond smuggling or whatever it is rich people do to afford places like this.
The air smells like salt and sun-warmed stone, and the buildings lining the harbor are straight out of a watercolor painting.
After a few fun-filled days in Paris, Charles and I jetted off to the Cote d’Azur—the South of France.
It’s apparently a playground for the rich and famous. My research revealed that the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio, the Beckhams, and Beyoncé and Jay-Z had all vacationed here.
All this time when Charles was telling me about this trip, and that we’d be spending time on Elysium, I thought it was a place. Maybe some fancy private island off the coast of Spain or something. I had no idea it was the name of his yacht.
When I googled it, I discovered that in ancient Greek mythology, Elysium was a paradise for gods.
Still, when we arrive at the marina, I’m unprepared for the stunning marvel before me.
This isn’t a yacht, it’s a floating, multistory mansion that could probably survive the apocalypse.
“Charles,” I mutter, staring up at the gleaming white vessel. “This thing has a helipad.”
He barely glances up from his phone. “Mmm.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are we expecting someone to drop in via helicopter?”
“No, but it’s nice to have options.”
I want to argue that normal people’s options are, like, economy vs. extra legroom, not which airborne vehicle should I descend from today? But before I can, a sharply dressed man in a crisp white uniform approaches.
“Welcome aboard Elysium,” he says, flashing the polished smile of a man who has never been overwhelmed by an eight-figure boat. His accent is hard to place. European, though. “I’m Captain Laurent. I trust your journey was smooth?”
Before I can answer, Charles says, “Lovely, thank you.”
“Allow me to introduce Colette, miss,” Captain Laurent continues, gesturing to a petite brunette with effortless grace and a clipboard that suggests she means business. “She’s our chief stewardess and will ensure your stay is exceptional.”
Colette beams. “Welcome! If there’s anything you need, just let me know.” She’s very pretty, and I’m momentarily distracted by how porcelain her skin is.
A guest services specialist named Melisse had contacted me ahead of our departure to arrange for the provisions we wanted on board, which were apparently groceries.
Provisions sounds so pretentious. I had to tell her about my allergies and preferences.
She already knew Charles’s favorites, but I made sure to remind her about his love for liverwurst.
But other than that, I feel a little clueless about how this whole thing works. Charles only mentioned that we’d be visiting different ports and to have my passport on board with me.
“Uh, yeah, quick question.” I glance between them. “Where exactly do I stay? Do I get, like . . . a bunk bed situation, or are we talking a Titanic-style steerage scenario?”
Colette’s eyes widen slightly. “You . . . have a full suite, Miss Francesca.”
Charles sighs. “Frankie, it’s a yacht, not a hostel.”
“My bad,” I deadpan. “I’m just adjusting to the concept of a floating five-star hotel.”
Colette laughs politely, but the captain is clearly debating whether or not I’m a liability.
“Well, welcome aboard and feel free to explore the vessel,” he says diplomatically. “Dinner will be served on the aft deck at sunset.”
“Sounds great,” Charles replies.
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Do we need to, like . . . help with anything?”
Now Colette looks genuinely alarmed. “Help?”
“Yeah, you know, hoist sails? Swab the decks? Batten down hatches?” I wave vaguely. “Nautical things.”
Captain Laurent clears his throat. “Elysium is fully crewed. We don’t have sails since it’s a motor yacht. And you won’t need to, uh . . . batten anything.”
Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. “Frankie, for God’s sake.”
I shrug. “Just checking.”
The captain wisely decides to move on. “Well, then, enjoy your time aboard Elysium. We hope to depart in a day or two, and until then, make yourself comfortable. We’re glad to have you aboard again, sir.”
As Charles steps onto the yacht like he was born for this, I take one last look at the impossibly blue water and the kind of luxury I will never be used to.
Then I square my shoulders and board the yacht—mentally promising myself I won’t fall overboard or, worse, make an absolute spectacle of myself.
Probably.
My guest cabin is dreamy—plush bedding, buttery-soft linens, and a window with a view so perfect it almost looks fake. There’s a private en suite bathroom with gold fixtures, a rainfall shower, and towels that feel like they were spun from actual clouds. Everything smells like lavender and luxury.
I wander from my cabin, strolling along the deck toward the front of the vessel.
There are names for things I’ll probably never get used to. The kitchen is the galley. The balcony is an aft deck. The mess is part of the crew quarters.
There’s also the poop deck and the flybridge, which sound made up but aren’t.
It’s more than I need. Way more than I’m used to.
And for a second, I wonder—not for the first time—what exactly I’m doing here.
In addition to meeting Captain Laurent and Colette, I’ve been introduced to several other crew members. An engineer. Someone called a stew. A couple of deckhands. And a private chef.
It’s dizzying, watching them all move about the yacht with purpose and precision—like they belong here.
I’m still figuring out if I do.
We won’t depart from our slip in the marina for a couple more days because, apparently, we’re still waiting for one more member of our crew who got held up in immigration.
I lean against the railing, the salty breeze cooling my skin as the sun melts into the horizon.
The stone walls of the city darken into shadow as lights come on in the old town above them—forming the kind of view people write poetry about.
Or, I don’t know, put on their vision boards.
But instead of feeling inspired, all I can think about is how I feel like I don’t belong here. Not really.
Olivia said something similar to me back in Hawaii, noticing how out of place I was. I reveled in putting her in her place then, even if I’d been left with remnants of doubt circling in my head.
I stuck my foot in my mouth with Laurent and Colette, and let’s be honest, I doubt it will be the last time.
Though this isn’t really about Laurent and Colette—it’s about me. Is this really what I’m supposed to be doing with my life? Should I pack it up and head back to Jersey and find a real job?
I never expected to feel so unsettled vacationing in the French Riviera, but here we are.
Charles steps up beside me, setting his drink down with a quiet clink. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nod.
He turns to me, probably not used to me being so quiet and withdrawn. “Are you doing okay?”
“Honestly?” I squint at him.
“Always,” he assures me.
“I don’t know. I feel like I keep waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I don’t belong here. That I took a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong life.”
“Is this about earlier?”
Even the perpetually composed Charles seemed somewhat embarrassed by my comments.
“Maybe.”
“You know, you sell yourself short.”
A laugh escapes me—quiet and a little shaky. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I prefer to think of it as being realistic.”
He side-eyes me. “No, it’s self-sabotage. There’s a difference. Do you think I had everything all figured out on day one?”
I give him a hard look. “Of course. You’re you.”
Charles laughs. “Fair point. But I promise you, there have been times when I don’t know what I’m doing either. I just decided to show up anyway. Confidence isn’t something you wait for—it’s something you build by doing. By showing up, even when you feel like an impostor.”
I scoff. “Easier said than done.”
“Then fake it. Walk in like you own the place, even if inside, you’re still figuring out where the bathroom is.”
“So . . . just lie to myself?”
“No. Borrow confidence from your future self. The version of you who already knows she belongs. You’re her. You just haven’t caught up yet.”
The words hit like a flick to the forehead—annoying and impossible to ignore. I grip the railing and release a slow exhale.
Charles shifts, leaning one elbow on the railing. “All I’m saying is don’t discount yourself.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. I know I’m pretty great, I just don’t know if I’m great in this role or with these kinds of people.
“Aren’t you, though? You don’t think you deserve to be in certain rooms, so you keep yourself out of them. You don’t think you’re good enough for certain people, so you keep your distance.”
My grip tightens around the railing. I don’t like where this is going. Mostly because he’s not wrong.
“Okay, Dr. Phil,” I say, forcing a smirk to disarm him. “And what exactly am I supposed to do? Just wake up one morning and decide I’m the main character of my life?”
Charles grins. “Yes.”
I roll my eyes, but his words stick like gum on the bottom of my shoe. I’ve spent so much time keeping my head down, playing it safe, assuming that people like me—people who fumble through life, who aren’t all put together—don’t get to be the ones who win. But what if I’ve been wrong?
“I’m me, Charles. I’m probably still going to make an ass of myself sometimes.” The words are quieter than I mean them to be.
Charles doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, you’ll have some mess-ups from time to time, that’s life. And then you try again.”
I’m quiet for a moment, then smirk again. “Okay, fine. But if I get called out, I’m blaming you.”
Charles grins. “Deal. But you won’t. Because the moment you start believing in yourself, the world follows suit.” He nudges my shoulder. “And you have no idea how much I’m looking forward to watching you flourish, Frankie. The world has no clue what’s coming.”
I exhale, watching the last sliver of sun slip beneath the water.
What if he’s right?