Chapter Thirteen #2
“Em, hold on,” I say. “I’m not trying to shoot you down—”
She stops at the bottom of the stairs. “Not intentionally, but that’s what you’re doing. I promise I can pull this off. If he’s keeping anything from us, I’ll trick it out of him. You just have to trust me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and yank the sofa compartment open.
“I do trust you, but when you’re done with a guy, you say it with your entire body.
He’s going to figure it out. You’re a terrible liar.
Which is a good quality, by the way. You’re the most genuine person I know, but it means he’s going to see this coming a mile away. ”
Emmy’s eyes narrow. “Maybe I should take some tips from you then. Or are you going to tell the truth about what’s going on between you and my brother?”
The compartment lid slips from my fingers and slams shut before I even see what’s inside. I spin toward her, schooling my features. “Nothing is going on.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. The guilt sinks its teeth into me, and I fight to keep it off my face. Unfortunately she can smell a half-truth like a bloodhound.
“Are you sure about that? Because he dove in after you without a moment’s hesitation when the mast took you under.”
I open the compartment again and use it to hide my face. “He thought I was about to be Captain Keith: The Encore. I would have done the same if it were you. Or Jackson. Or even Ben.”
“And that’s all it was? Saving you out of obligation?”
My stomach twists into a knot. “What else would it be?”
“No idea, but the fact that you won’t look me in the eye when you say it speaks volumes.”
“I’m trying to find a way to get the water out of the boat.”
“No, you’re trying to find a way out of this conversation,” she says. “I just don’t understand why. You tell me everything. I thought you were over him?”
I flinch. “I am over him.”
“Then you might want to start acting like the smart, independent badass you are and stop staring at him with those ‘please love me’ hearts in your eyes.”
Jackson lowers himself to a crouch at the top of the stairs and raises an eyebrow. “Interesting time to come check on you two.”
My cheeks flush, and I turn away from both of them.
“Em, Sailing Camp is asking for you,” he says.
“We’re not done here, Hannah,” she says, before stomping up the stairs and along the deck. I catch a flash of her legs through the portholes.
Jackson clears his throat. “Ah, Hannah?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you need any help…or…?”
My head is still half buried in the compartment, and I’m not too proud to admit I’m hiding from the tsunami of embarrassment coursing through my veins. “Nope. I’ve got it handled, thanks.”
The stairs creak under his weight. “Are you sure? I can help you figure out the—”
“Nope!” My face flames hotter when I hear how high-pitched that comes out. I try again. “I’ve got it. Besides, your sister is determined to play undercover girlfriend to trick our resident murderer into coughing up useful sailing tips, so you’ll be needed up there when that plan goes to shit.”
He sighs, and when I look up again, he’s gone. I groan at the smoke-stained ceiling. I don’t think I’ve ever been this embarrassed in my life, and the fact that I give a single shit about this in the middle of a survival situation only makes me feel even more pathetic.
I should have said no to this trip. I should have gone with my gut and made some kind of excuse. I could be home in my own bed right now…
Far from two of the people I love most in this world, while they’re in danger.
My throat gets tight at the thought of them out here with Ben while I enjoyed a blissful spring break from the safety of my couch. Probably rewatching Grey’s Anatomy for the hundredth time when the call came in that they were missing.
My dad has probably gotten that same call about me.
Tears sting in my eyes. I’ve never met someone more professionally capable in my entire life. At the hospital, he’s a well-oiled machine, and everyone relies on him to keep his department running smoothly. But at home? When it’s only me and him, he’s a walking bag of worry.
Finding out I’m missing, lost somewhere at sea?
This will break him.
I swipe a tear from my cheek and blow out a breath.
Nope. I can’t do this.
If I crumble, it’s all over. We need to get off this Be-Yacht-Ch.
I force my attention back to the storage bin. I have a task. Get the water out of the boat. That’s much more productive than drowning in guilt or what-ifs.
I fully flip up the bench seat this time, and bingo.
This one is full of mechanical-looking stuff—the most promising one so far.
There’re a bunch of tools and wires, zip ties and clamp-looking things, pieces of PVC piping, electrical tape, and hardware.
But after digging through the contents, I don’t see anything that looks like a pump apart from some kind of coiled clear ribbed hose.
If there’s a pump in here, I’m not seeing it.
Sure would have been great if Ben hadn’t spent the day proving we can’t trust him.
He might actually recognize what some of this stuff is for.
The thing I need could be right in front of me, and I wouldn’t even know what I’m looking at.
Time for a new plan.
I snatch up the hose and unwind it. It’s about two and a half inches wide and maybe twenty feet long.
I dunk the hose in the water, until it’s fully submerged.
I slap my palm over one end to keep the air out and fling it out the open hatch, making sure the other end stays in the water.
The first time, the hose falls back in the cabin.
The second time, I walk the covered end up the stairs to maintain the suction, but I slip and almost smack my face, losing my grip on the hose altogether.
The third time I get the hose up on the deck and over the side of the boat.
Water starts pouring from the hose and I throw both hands into the air, victory style.
And they say the internet is rotting our brains. Guess who would be shit out of luck today if she hadn’t spent enough time doomscrolling to see a video about a dude draining his aboveground pool with a spare hose? This girl right here.
As long as there’s no air in the tube and the draining end is lower than the water you’re hoping to remove, it’ll siphon right out.
I look back to see if anyone witnessed my victory, but they’re all on the other side of the propped-up sail. Oh well. It’s a victory just for me then.
I poke my head back inside the cabin to make sure the other end of the hose is fully submerged and pluck a soggy hardcover from the water to hold the hose in place.
The interior end is only about nine or ten inches below the surface, but that’ll drain at least half of what’s in the cabin, and at this point, anything is an improvement.
Water is heavy as hell, and we can’t afford to sit any lower when the next storm hits.
Stretching my avoidance to its limits, I grab the loaf of bread off the counter, hastily make two sandwiches with a scrape of peanut butter, and cut them in half.
None of us have eaten anything but fruit snacks since yesterday afternoon.
We have to make the food last, but we’re also going to need energy to make it through this next storm, and we should eat the bread first, before it starts to mold.
I stack the halved sandwiches in a pile, grab the water bottle Emmy brought me earlier, and make my way back to the others.
Ben is still latched to the mast. Emmy is so close to his side, she might as well be in his lap—clearly committed to her role. And she’s leveling Jackson with a death glare.
I’m apparently interrupting sibling argument number five thousand.
Jackson sits a few feet away on one of the flat sections of decking in the middle of the boat, shaking his head. “That’s not how it works, Emmy.”
“Why not? We have the compasses on our phones. We can use them to see our current coordinates,” she says, ignoring my arrival.
Emmy’s never been one to tolerate being left out; I’m not exactly shocked at the silent treatment.
“And what exactly are we supposed to do with our coordinates?” Jackson asks.
“Use them to figure out where we are.”
“Do you by chance know the correct coordinates for Puerto Vallarta? Or what that random jumble of numbers even means? We’re not sailors. We don’t even have a map.”
She scowls at him but says nothing.
“Not to mention, we might not have access to our current coordinates anymore,” I say, handing Jackson a sandwich and dumping two in Emmy’s lap. I’ll leave her to feed the hostage. “My phone is dead. Emmy’s is too. So unless either of you happen to have a charge…”
Ben shakes his head. “Mine died last night.”
Jackson leans to the side and fishes his from his pocket. He presses the button but nothing happens on the screen. “I was at twenty percent when I checked for a signal this morning, but it went in the water with me when I dove in to help Hannah.”
Shit.
Emmy stares daggers into the side of my face. “Didn’t even stop to take his phone out of his pocket first. Interesting.”
I clear my throat. “The point is, we can’t use coordinates we don’t have. We’ll need another plan.”
It’s silent for a long moment as we all stare at our food. As if we’re collectively thinking about how hungry we are. I take a bite first. The bread sticks to the inside of my dry mouth, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to have something other than fruit snacks in my stomach.
Emmy eats her sandwich in tiny gopher bites.
Like she thinks the more she chews, the more filling it’ll be.
She holds Ben’s sandwich to his mouth, and he eats half of it in one bite.
His is gone before Emmy’s finished with hers, and I see him eyeing it.
I stop eating, ready to smack his face if he tries to guilt her into sharing her ration, but she finishes her meal in peace.